


Harry Potter and the Gothening

by BairnSidhe, ValkyriePhoenix



Series: Gothening [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst muffins, Awesome Molly Weasley, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Childhood Injuries, Confused Draco Malfoy, Confusion, Crackfic style Antics, Crafters are more terrifying than you, Draco has No Idea what the hell is going on, DragonMama, Explaining adopted family, Glitter is absolutely a hazardous contaminant, Glitter is actually magical, Goths Fix Everything, Helga was a Viking, Hermione is mini-FriendMom, Holy baggage batman, Hurt/Comfort, I Need An Adultier Adult, I Totally didn't mean for Lily to give him an album as hard hitting as she did, Impending Chaos, Inspired by Music, It's 100 percent NOT My Fault, Language, Late Night Writing, Lily Evans Does What She Wants, Lily Evans Gives No Fucks, More to magic than canon, Nazis Ruin Everything, No Sevvy You can't Just murder them, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Pranksters should not meet, Pure-blood etiquette, Ron is a Good Bro, Ron is from a large family and knows how to deescalate, Self-Harm, Sevvy gets a lot of Eyerolls, Shenanigans, Slytherin Harry Potter, Smart People Know the Most Terrifying House is Hufflepuff, Spilling the Plot Juice, The self-preservation instinct of a lemming, They do anyways, This Woman Is A Lunatic, Uncomfortable Truths, Weasleys On Distraction Duty, What-If, Who gave the twins glitter?, discussion of child abuse, inconsistent updates, real talk, wasn't me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 64,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22748461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BairnSidhe/pseuds/BairnSidhe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValkyriePhoenix/pseuds/ValkyriePhoenix
Summary: How do Harry, Hogwarts, and the Wizarding World change when you throw goths into the mix?
Series: Gothening [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1847941
Comments: 941
Kudos: 329
Collections: Ianto's Harry Potter Collection





	1. The Boy Who Survived

**Author's Note:**

> This started because I got a song stuck in my head (Spectators by Cruxshadows) and my brain makes weird connections. As usual, it ballooned out on me. It was _supposed_ to be maybe 3 chapters, one per verse of Spectators. We don't hit verse 2 until chapter 6. Which is half-written at the moment. Also, supposed-to-be-side characters have developed massive back stories. Again, as usual.
> 
> For convenience's sake, timeline has been moved forward a decade, so First Year is 2001 instead of 1991, this which is starting summer before 4th year, is 2004.
> 
> In regards to music mentioned herein, I'm ignoring what year exactly songs were written, so long as the band that wrote them existed in 2004.

**Chapter One - The Boy Who Survived**

Harry had been “home” -- if Number 4 Privet Drive could be called any such thing -- from Hogwarts for four days. He had discovered quickly that “Dudders” was newly on a strict diet. The good news with this was that he no longer had to get up before dawn and cook enough to feed an army… or one walrus, one whale, and a stork. Neither small bowls of plain bran cereal with skim milk (Harry got water in his instead) nor quarters of unsweetened grapefruit required cooking or even much in the way of preparation. The bad news… more fresh produce and smaller portions meant more frequent trips to the grocer’s. Most people might not see this as a bad thing. Most people weren’t the primary source of entertainment for a bunch of budding psychopath teenagers. Nor would they be punished for the resulting delay in getting home, stolen money or dropped food.

And that was entirely leaving aside the fact that smaller portions for  _ them _ meant far less scraps for him, and not being the one cooking meant fewer chances to snitch some extra. It would be a few more days before his stomach got used to not having access to the largess of Hogwarts again.

With the distraction of his stomach grumbling, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that the voice took him by surprise.

_ down on the other side of things _

_ the triggers fast and light _

_ bringing home this emptiness _

_ for which you had to fight _

Harry paused warily in his furtive hustle through the park, kicking himself for missing it. Normally, hearing any voice in this broken down park was a sure sign he needed to run, as it was almost guaranteed to be Dudley and his gang. This voice, though, was…  _ new.  _ He listened carefully, tasting the sounds: no braying, cruel laughs, no loud jeers, none of the hallmarks of the area’s leading bullies tormenting some poor kid. Instead, the only sound was a woman’s voice,  _ singing. _ People don’t  _ sing  _ in Little Whinging. They’re a Respectable Lot, Thank You. It’s  _ just not done.  _

The clean alto voice didn’t mumble or pause, but rang out loud and clear like they didn’t  _ care _ what people thought. And the words...

_ it doesn't matter if you're giving _

_ for they do not compromise _

_ the world will keep you guessing _

_ until the day you die _

Harry didn’t think he’d ever heard any song that… that  _ meant _ something, that hit home the way this did, that called and beckoned in the quiet. Little Whinging didn’t like music much, and when they did it was either prosaic and staid, or empty, bubbly nonsense, a fitting backdrop for their prosaic, staid, humdrum lives.    
  
This... wasn’t that. He found himself edging closer to the sounds, caution fading in the onslaught of curiosity. Was it a wizard? He knew, logically, that not all muggles were Little Whinging Muggles, but he’d never actually met one who wasn’t.

_ And everyone will say "I told you so" _

_ yeah they'll all just nod and sigh _

_ but I'll make a run at something real _

_ and they'll never even try _

The voice was a woman, laying in the shade of one of the trees in the center of the park. If it weren’t for the blood red headphones connected to a boxy bit of technology he knew from Dudley’s friends was called an iPod, he’d have thought his idea of it being someone with magic confirmed, she was so oddly dressed. Black and red were the only colors he could see on her, in the oddest mix of leather, rags, brocade, and lace finery he’d ever seen. Some kind of netting, which seemed torn in half a dozen spots, safety pins, and frayed edges were everywhere, but her corset, leather boots, and the lace skirt worn over the skin-tight, torn black jeans were all in perfect condition.  _ Who even wears a blood red corset to the park on a summer day?  _ Well, some of the Slytherin girls might, if they could, though theirs would probably be green, grey, or black. And the collection of what appeared to be raven and crow feathers woven into the dozens of braids on her head just added more confusion.

_ and everyone will say "I told you so" _

_ yeah they'll all just nod and sigh _

_ as I go down in a ball of flames _

_ they'll just watch, I wonder why _

She popped an eye open, looked at him and smiled. Harry couldn’t help but feel things were about to change.

“I’m Mabon, Mab if you like. Mad Mab if you don’t like. Who’re you?”

“Harry,” said Harry, a bit confused by someone smiling at him who didn’t know who he was. “Harry Potter. Um…”

He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to ask if she was a witch, but if she wasn’t she might be offended by the question, and even if she wasn’t upset, that might break the laws about secrecy. He wanted to ask why she was dressed like that, where she got the feathers, and wasn’t the corset hot, but those were all things that people probably asked a lot, and not in a nice way. He wanted to know… everything, but he couldn’t find a way to ask anything.

“Well, Harry Potter, if you like the singing, pull up some grass and stay a bit. Can you keep a beat?”

“No idea, but I’d like to try,” Harry said, sitting down beside her. “I can’t stay long. I have to get back or my Aunt and Uncle will...”

He stopped. In his experience, telling people about what happened in Number 4 Privet Drive ended with them going away.

“Yeah,” Mab said. “Understood. When you get time, my friends and I like to meet by the gazebo down Magnolia, across from the cut-through to Wisteria. You should come by, meet people, maybe learn to sing along.”

“I’d like that,” Harry said. The look she gave him was confusing, but Harry suspected she was telling the truth when she said she understood. But understood what? He hadn’t said anything… Had he?

***

Over the course of the next weeks, Harry met the most baffling group of people whenever Aunt Petunia insisted he be out of the house, or he was locked out. The latter being this year’s preferred punishment as the threat of My-Godfather-The-Escaped-Mass-Murderer handily removed the option for worse ones.

One of the boys in the group looked like he’d walked straight out of a Sherlock Holmes novel, one of the girls clearly drew inspiration from the Brontes’ novels, one wore an almost exact replica of what Lady Malfoy had been wearing when she picked Draco up from the Express, another girl seemed nearly as tall as Hagrid, what with the foot-plus-tall mohawk and the eight-inch-platform boots, one of the older boys -- probably an adult technically, in all honesty, but no older than any of the Weasley boys, and thus, to Harry's almost-fourteen mind, still counted as a kid -- had shaggy black hair past his shoulders, black fingernails, piercings and snake tattoos. Mab and a few others seemed to change their styles daily, though never in any way that passed as “normal”. One boy, about the age of Percy, looked exactly like the goblin king from a movie he’d watched at Mrs. Figg’s last summer, except he was all in black and dark purple, right down to the glitter.

Every last one of them had a weird name, even by wizarding standards. The tall girl with the taller hair went by Tick, like the blood sucking insects or the sound of a clock, or maybe Tic, like an involuntary spasm. Harry had felt it might be rude to ask. The boy in handsewn turn of the century replicas went by Pink. The probable adult proudly introduced himself as Troll. Harry couldn’t help but compare him to the troll they’d fought first year, and before he could stop it his mouth had opened.

“You smell much nicer than the last troll I met, and you’re better dressed.”

Fortunately, Troll the Human laughed at that. The sparkly one laughed with a full throated sound Harry wished he knew how to make, ruffled his hair with a hand trailing sparkles, and proclaimed him a wit.

“Wit, Wit, y’know that’s a good name if you like it,” Mab said brightly. Harry looked at her cautiously. She gave him a sad smile. “Keep it if you want. It’s a gift.”

“I hadn’t meant to Name him!” protested the yet unintroduced leather clad teen. “He should get to choose his own, like the rest of us. It’s not fair to take his Naming, Mab.”

She shook her head. “Call it a training Name if it makes you feel better, Bowie. He’s overwhelmed, just look at him. We need to give him some things easy.”

Troll the Human looked at Mab with the same sad look Mab gave Harry. “Next time,” he said slowly, deliberately moving the topic with the precision Hermione moved her wand, “let’s have ourselves a feast. Music, food, and merriment, no better balms to the human soul.”

The group began discussing what all they would bring to the gazebo, dishes and drinks and instruments and other odds and ends. Mab grabbed his hand as he backed into the corner. “Don’t worry, the newbie never buys. This is… a welcome. A reunion.”

“I’ve never met any of you before, though,” Harry said.

“Doesn’t make you not one of us, Wit. Doesn’t make you not family. Long lost, maybe, prodigal even, but you’re like us, one of us, in your heart. Where it matters, you’re just an old friend we hadn’t met before. We’ll have another feast when Kothaar and Vvornth get back from going a viking.”

“Just roll with it, there’s a lad,” said Pink with a hearty back slap that somehow avoided all the bruises Harry hid under his unseasonable jumper.

Roll with it. Harry could do that, it's how he got through every year of strangeness and danger and people being... _ people  _ at Hogwarts, after all.

Ever confused by these strange people who had pulled him in, accepted him, claimed him as theirs faster than Gryffindor did without even the Sorting Hat there to tell them he belonged, Harry, newly dubbed Wit for the time being, settled into the feast. He found dozens more things to be confused about, and firmly decided "Roll with it" was the best advice he could have been given.

_ Complete strangers were having a feast in his honor, just because he was there? His plate wasn't too big or too small, and kept full of light weight, bite-sized, healthy food, despite there being plenty of heavy, fattening foods that would no doubt have made him sick just then? Everyone listened when he spoke, but no one  _ _ watched _ _ him? There was a heated debate about some book or other, complete with a whole new level of swear words for him, but the participants laughed and were still friends? Everyone stayed where he could see them, and though they pounced and tackled each other, seemed to wait for his permission to touch him? _

Shaking his head, he slipped into HogwartsHarry, letting the affable and snarky parts of himself out a bit more. HogwartsHarry was better at "just rolling with it" than Little WhingingHarry was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(Harry got water in his instead)_ Nasty, yes, but that's the point. Since when would Petunia spend good money on Harry having palatable food, or giving him a choice to eat something slightly less disgusting?
> 
>  _In his experience, telling people about what happened in Number 4 Privet Drive ended with them going away._  
>  Headcanon that to keep Harry in the care of blood relations Dumbledoor has like a low grade no-notice curse that forces anyone who tries to part him from the Dursleys to decide to be elsewhere for Reasons. Otherwise any teacher would have stopped that -- Bairn
> 
> Actually, I also have a similar headcanon for similar reasons... which is kinda worse. After the first reports from each teacher regarding Dudley's bullying or suspicions of abuse, Someone dropped no-notice compulsions on them....which results in them not noticing ANY bullying or abuse on anyone. Harry (and others, buying the bull Dumbles is selling) might not get mad about it if it's "just him" but when it's pointed out that these are actively hurting others? ... No one would be able to excuse it. --Valky
> 
>  _to Harry's almost-fourteen mind, still counted as a kid_  
>  I don't know about everyone else, but when I was Harry's age the logic went like this: "If any of my friends has a sibling that age, they're a kid, if any of my friends has a parent that age, they're a grown up." Thus, 20somethings count as kids. Mab, the oldest of the goths is 26 or so, a bit under 10 years younger than Harry's parents, but also 4 years older than Bill Weasley, so she's a grey-area.
> 
>  _Kothaar and Vvornth_ are leads of the group's viking metal band. Everybody pitches in, whether as a roadie or helping make costumes, props, or makeup. _going a-viking_ is their slang for going on tour.
> 
>  _HogwartsHarry was better at "just rolling with it" than Little-WhingingHarry_  
>  I'm headcanoning that he can be ActualHarry with the twins, Luna, and Neville, is a close variation on that with Ron and Hermione, has a third persona for the rest of Hogwarts and the Weasleys, and a fourth for at "home" each one based on what he thinks is "allowed" by the situation. The Goths may get ActualHarry out, but I don't know how to write that, as I have a hard time sorting the Harrys out in canon, and I'm not sure we get a clear picture of ActualHarry anywhere in the text, just flashes and bits here and there.
> 
> As always, comments feed the muse.


	2. Home at Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry discovers what Home is supposed to mean, Mab is very much a Hufflepuff with Slytherin tendencies, and has no patience for political shenanigans when kids are involved.

Being left behind while the Dursely’s went on vacation wasn’t as bad as it could have been, really. He took his things and walked down to the gazebo, and from there turned into the cut through on Wisteria, and knocked on an unprepossessing black door with a silver knocker.

“Wit?”

“Mab? The Durselys are in America on vacation, and I’ve been locked out.”

Mab looked at him with eyes that seemed wider than they should be, empty of makeup as her face was. She pulled her fluffy velvet robe tighter around her waist and stepped back, nodding at the tiny flat. 

“Well, s’not much, but it’s mine, and mine is yours if you need it. You want to talk about it?”

“Not so much, no.”

Mab nodded and that was that.

Later, he woke on a daybed he was sure wasn’t built with real coffin parts, at least not used ones, with afternoon sun in his eyes.

“Morning, Wit. Do you happen to know a bloke named Cornelius Fudge?”

“Yes?” Harry said cautiously. “Why?”

“Showed up at the bloody crack of bleeding dawn,  _ well _ before ten, and wanted to know if I’d a boy called Harry Potter in the flat. I said we’d only me and Wit and Sheila the Ball Python, but Wit was sleeping and if he’d care to ask about Sheila’s pseudonyms he’d have to take it up with her.”

Sheila hissed smugly from her driftwood tree in what had been intended as a sunny breakfast nook but made a serviceable python room. “ _ He wasss a sssilly mansss. Sssso ssscared.” _

Without thinking, Harry scolded the prank-prone python in Parseltongue. Then he looked at Mab. She, however, was not looking at him, instead focusing on the pot in front of her harder than even Hermione in potions class.

“Wit?”

“Yes, Mab?”

“Please tell me you aren’t going back. Please tell me you won’t ever let them do this to you again. I don’t care if it’s true, I just need to hear it.” She pulled the pot from the stove and snapped it off definitively. “That Fudge bloke seemed like he wanted to just take you, without so much as a by your leave, and go… somewhere. The Dursleys clearly aren’t fit to parent a tank of sea monkeys, and you are worth so much more than this. You deserve better. You know that, don’t you?”

Harry boggled at the idea, even with the understanding he had about his new friends and their philosophy. He almost didn’t notice when Mab sat down the pot of green, sticky paste on a skull shaped trivet in front of him.

“Salve, for bruises. Also works as a hair gel if you like. I’ll be downstairs when you have an answer for me.”

Harry thought about her question. He hadn’t considered ever… not living with the Dursleys. Certainly when he was an adult and working and could get his own home, but that was all shrouded in the mist of the future. Maybe his first year at Hogwarts, the night Hagrid came bursting into the shack on the sea, he’d toyed with the idea of hope of rescue, but Dumbledore made it quite clear he could not hide in Hogwarts all year. Then last year, when there’d been that small sliver of a chance at being raised by Sirius, at being loved and cared for and all the bad fixed and sorted forever. But aside from a few bright moments of lightning bright delirium, potent as a Patronus and just as hard to hold, he’d never really considered… better. The idea was still new, sitting oddly in his gut like the first night’s feast at Hogwarts, when he always forgot to ease into eating what he wanted instead of whatever he could grab. He decided to treat it like the food, small doses of thinking, easing into belief in ‘better’.

Slowly, Harry shrugged out of his shirt and began carefully applying the paste. He didn’t have any bruises from Vernon this time, thankfully, as the man appeared truly afraid of the threat of Sirius, but no one and nothing would stop Dudley from hitting what he wanted to hit. Wincing as he twisted to get to the bruises on his back, he sighed. He was going to need help. Well, if she had already seen… And if she hadn’t… he paused, thinking hard. If she hadn’t seen… It shouldn’t matter, from what she’d said, the way she said it, the things she and the others had said and done since he met them, they all knew, or guessed most of it anyways, though HOW he still wasn’t sure. 

He took the cool pot and quietly went downstairs. Whatever she  _ said _ he still didn’t like interrupting people who were busy.

Mab’s basement wasn’t very basement-ish, Harry thought. By which he meant it wasn’t dank, dusty, or dark, and bore no resemblance to the dungeons at Hogwarts. It was finished, in shades of pale purple, with warm lights and a sizeable craft area. It also had a single black punching bag hanging from the exposed support beam, and Mab was trying to murder it.

“Um.”

“Wit!” She halted the bag’s swinging with one hand, and pushed hair out of her face with the other. “Sorry. I should have thought when I told you to come down. I just… it helps.”

“As long as you’re not picturing my face on the bag,” Harry said with a shrug. Mab snorted in answer. “I’ve thought about it. During school, everything is fine, usually. I’m not with them, people treat me like… like a person, usually, and when they don’t it’s not as bad? Hogwarts is safe, everyone says it, and I think it’s probably more true than people saying Little Whinging is safe. But my headmaster, he doesn’t think it’s a good idea to keep me there over the summers. It’s all terribly complicated, I’m leaving things out, I know I am and I just need you to believe that I’m being as honest as I can.”

“I do, I trust you Wit.” Mab took a deep breath. “And next summer?”

“He may send me back to the Dursleys. I don’t know. I can survive summers, I just can’t risk not being able to go back to Hogwarts and that means there are some lines I have to toe. But I do think I can answer your question. Yes. Yes, I deserve better. I deserve to feel like I do with you and the gang here, like I do with Ron and ‘Mione at school. I deserve a parent who looks out for me, like Mrs. Weasley does for Ron and Ginny and Fred and George and even Percy who is kind of a git. I know I deserve better, but I also know it isn’t about deserve, it’s about what you can make work.”

Mab was silent a moment. “Write your friends. You’re staying here at least for the rest of the summer. If  _ he _ sends you back to them again next year, you come here  _ any _ time you need to, and you can store your stuff for school here. I don’t trust the Dursleys not to sabotage the one good thing in your life.”

Mab winced as she got a good look at his ribs. "How are you even moving right now?"

Harry shrugged, "it's just bruises, Ma, nothing broken."

"The fact that you can tell the difference between bruised ribs and broken ribs by the feel of them illustrates my point," Mab sighed, seemingly ignoring the slip of the tongue, though her lips quirked up slightly. "Turn around, I'll get your back."

***

Mab loved Arthur Weasley. That much was obvious from the moment she welcomed them into her home and proceeded to philosophically ponder the purpose of a rubber duck when prompted. No question was too outrageous to be answered in the same enthusiastic sincerity it was asked, no requested demonstration of appliances too awkward to be indulged. Upon being interrupted by Fred and George’s attempts to keep their father from violating secrecy, she simply narrowed her eyes, said “not in the house” and nodded at the back door.

Molly Weasley loved Mab. That much became clear when Mab pulled her aside as the twins loaded the trunks into the Granger’s rented van, which fit with some quickly cast shrinking charms, and whispered quietly in her ear. If Harry hadn’t been banned from hauling his own things, minus Hedwig, of course, he wouldn’t have been close enough to hear the words, let alone the fierce protection in them.

“He is NOT going back to live there. I need the rest of the summer to work some things out, but when he comes home… he comes  _ home _ , understand? If you fight me on this, be aware, I fight dirty.”

“Oh my dear girl, if I weren’t full to the brim I’d have said the same his first year. Anyone fusses you, let me know. You have my wand.”

Mrs. Weasley then turned scarlet, but Mab nodded and offered a handshake, the old kind that went up the wrist. “So mote it be,” she said, and then the two were off in a hustle of organizing the last of the guests out of Mab’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Durselys are in America on vacation, and I’ve been locked out._  
>  They went to Disney World. And locked him out when they left, but expected him not to leave the property. They didn't want him "stealing anything" and he mouthed off abut not wanting anything they value. 
> 
> _She pulled the pot from the stove and snapped it off definitively._  
>  Arnica and white willowbark with a drop of menthol in an aloe vera base.  
> Arnica takes care of the swelling and bleeding, willow bark takes the pain, menthol finishes numbing, aloe takes care of the skin and tissues underneath. yes, good.
> 
> _Granger’s rented van,_ The Elder Grangers rented the van for moving Harry in trade for taking care of Hermione to the Quidditch World Cup. It's hard to split the cost with the two currencies, so there's loads of favor-for-favor going on that balances.
> 
> _I need the rest of the summer to work some things out_ She is absolutely arranging for photos to be taken of his living arrangements and for a talk with the brothers of the viking metal duo, one of whom is a cop and one is a doctor, so she can get Harry in to the doc to provide evidence for the cop and quietly get the Dursleys at least away from Harry


	3. The Gothening Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To the Burrow!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It _begins_.

The ride to the Burrow was full of questions about Mab and how Harry met her, and was she odd, she seemed a bit odd for a muggle? Are we  _ sure _ she's a muggle? All of which necessitated Harry telling them about the goths, how he met them, and a slough of explanations he wasn't sure he really understood himself. 

Things only got weirder for Harry when they got to the Burrow and he opened his trunk and realized just how much more  _ stuff _ he had than he had packed up at Hogwarts in June.

“Wot’s all this, then?” Ron asked, poking at things he didn’t recognize.

Hermione snickered from where she’d perched on Harry’s bed. “When goths claim someone as ‘one of theirs,’ that person tends to spontaneously acquire things the adopting goth… clan thinks they need. Not all, by any means, but many are firm believers in sharing what you have but don’t need with someone who does need it. What all did they give you, Harry?”

“Clothes, mostly?” Harry shifted one of Wrath’s leather waistcoats to the side and held up a folded stack of netting. “Can you check if these are shirts or stockings? I didn’t pack all of it, none of the trousers from Bowie, at least. I’d need more baby powder than I could smuggle into Hogwarts.”

Hermione started unfolding and refolding the stack, sorting them according to some logic Harry didn’t grasp yet, as he was still boggled by the gifts. “Shoes?” she asked.

“One pair of boots, Troll outgrew them and nobody else had the same size.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Ron picked up a pair of fingerless gloves and poked the metal studs on the knuckle caps. “Blimey, you’d think they think Harry’s a right brawler.”

“I… may have mentioned ending up in the Hospital Wing,” Harry said cautiously. “I was vague about it, I didn’t talk about sorcerers stones or basilisks. Just a bloke named Tom who keeps causing me problems, y’know, things that get out of hand. Normal stuff.”

“Oh, yes,  _ normal _ ,” Ron said, rolling his eyes dramatically. “A bloke. Named Tom. Who keeps trying to bloody  _ murder you _ !”

“You sound like Kothaar,” Harry said with a snort. “We survived, you know that.”

Hermione sighed, “Well, at least yours didn’t decide to give you half their knife collection. Each.”

“Mine?” Harry raised an eyebrow at her.   
  
“I do community theater on summer break, outside of family vacations. So do most of the goths of the upper-level students at the school down the street from me. Speaking of…” She went to her trunk and proceeded to dump an almost disturbingly large pile of assorted knives, from practical use to display pieces, on the floor in front of them. “Take your pick. Lord knows a knife would be handy at times, but I definitely don’t need this many.”

“Did you have these last year?” Harry asked, poking through the pile for something solid and practical.

“Oh Harry,” she sighed. “I haven’t been unarmed except to bathe since the first year Christmas break. I didn’t bring anything at first, but the troll happened, and everything else, and I decided it was wise to be armed, and hang school rules.”

“Oi, who are you and what have you done with Hermione?” Ron asked. “I remember you were more scared of being expelled than dying.”

“That was before the break,” Hermione reminded him. “I talked it over with my friends, and they convinced me that no school, no matter how wonderful, is worth dying for. I also put loads of dead drops all over my house with notes and study materials so if they obliviated me as a part of expulsion, I could still keep my magic. That lessened the fear some.”

Harry nodded and Ron turned an alarming shade of white that made his freckles pop out like a connect the dots puzzle.

“You thought they’d  _ obliviate _ you?”

“Of course. The secrecy laws are downright paranoid and I know what fascism is. My parents are muggles, so expelling me from Hogwarts reclasses me from muggleborn witch to muggle girl with a bit of magic knowledge. How do you stop that from becoming a security risk? Erase the memories of the wizarding world, of Hogwarts, of magic.”

Ron turned bright red. “NO! That is in no way alright, they wouldn’t do that!”

“Ron, when they expelled Hagrid he got reclassified from half-giant wizard to half-wizard giant and it’s still illegal for him to use his wand, even though he does.”

Ron looked to Harry, who shrugged. “I’ve only recently been told it was illegal to make me live in a cupboard under the stairs for eleven years. There’s not much I think adults wouldn’t do, if it fits with how they act and what they want.”

Harry could see Ron transforming, shifting slightly in the shoulders, his face regaining normal hue, jaw set heroically. Something had awoken in his friend, and he didn’t yet know what. Then Ron spoke, and he knew, it was the Blood Of Molly Weasley.

“Nobody obliviates my friends, and if anyone puts either of you in a cupboard under the stairs again, I’ll, I’ll just…”

“Why don’t I teach you to knife fight first?” Hermione suggested.

“Right, what she said,” Ron said, the mantle he’d drawn around himself fading back. “So, now you’re unpacked, you want to go play some yard-Quidditch?”

“This is not unpacked,” Hermione insisted, waving at the piles of clothes. Harry laughed, and the three of them were back to their correct orientations with each other, the uncomfortable honesty over.

***

When Harry came back into the room to change and wash up after Quidditch, he found a small package lying on the floor where it had fallen during their unpacking. The fact that it was wrapped in black paper with purple glitter falling out of the folds in the paper made him sigh. Only Bowie had quite that level of fascination with the shiny stuff. He hoped magic could get rid of it, or he’d be finding glitter in his school books for months to come.

Mrs. Weasley should know. 

He carefully picked the package up, holding the folds closed to minimize how much glitter got tracked all over the house, and headed down to the kitchen. If nothing else, he needed to ask for a safe place to open it where the glitter wouldn’t be a problem.

“Mrs. Weasley?”

“Harry, dear, I’ve told you to call me Molly. What is it?”

“Do you know what glitter is? It’s just… I found this package in my things, and it’s leaking glitter, which, in muggle households makes a ridiculous mess that is near impossible to  _ completely _ get rid of, and winds up in all sorts of places you wouldn’t expect it to be. I was hoping you knew a spell that would work to clean it up, or at least a place I could open the package safely?”

“I know a great many cleaning spells, we’ll have to see if one works. In the meantime, why don’t you take that pot there, and set it on the table, and open the package inside it. Should at least contain the worst of it.”

(He did. It did contain the  _ worst _ of it. But...maybe Mrs. Weasley underestimated just how bad it could get?)

By the time he’d gotten the iPod and a note out of the package, he was coated in purple glitter up to his elbows.

Sighing, he kept his hands in the large pot and read the note as he waited for Mrs. Weasley to return.

**Wit,**

**Found this in a pawn shop and fixed it up. Should work wherever you do. Except maybe the shower. Or a stream. Y’know, just keep it out of water in general.**

**I know you don’t have a way to listen to music, and everybody already has one...or six. So this is yours.**

**No Backsies!**

**Bowie**

Harry groaned and tried to shake some of the glitter off so he could remove his hands from the cauldron without making an unholy mess. He was startled out of his thoughts by a hand reaching over and snagging a pinch of the glitter, sprinkling it back down (over his hands that he’d just gotten a bit off of, of fucking course.)

“What’s this then?” asked one twin as the other peered curiously over Harry’s shoulder.

If he could have facepalmed at that moment, he would have. “A muggle invention called glitter. It’s like tiny shards of mirrors, without using glass, made in different colors, and if you spill it anywhere, I will kill you if your mum doesn’t beat me to it. The stuff inexplicably gets everywhere and is harder to clean up than blood or cat fur. Bowie apparently decided to use it for packaging instead of bubblewrap or styrofoam like a sane person would use.”

“Like mirrors?”

“With no glass?”

The twins got their pondering faces on.

“Illusions mostly use,”

“Yes, but lighter, and less fragile,”

“Durability and duration increases should render realistic,”

“And when it runs out?”

The twins nodded and put their charming faces on. This somewhat alarmed Harry, as he was in no position to flee.

“Do you think that you could be convinced to part with that… glitter?” Fred asked, voice serious.

“I think the glitter needs to be convinced to part from me,” Harry said, lifting his hand and the note just far enough to show the sticking power of the purple sparkles. “And it really does get everywhere. If you use it anywhere in the Burrow, it will end up on you. If you use it in the Gryffindor common room or in any classrooms, it will end up on you. If you use it anywhere near someone who may bump, brush past, hug or tackle you, it will end up on you. Most importantly, if it ends up on you, it will get on your mother, and then you have to explain how you gave her the sparkle pox.”

“Maximum containment protocols,” George agreed. “We’ll treat it like the most dangerous potion reagent we’ve ever touched. May we have it?”

“If you can get it off me,” Harry said. The twins proceeded to do… something. It looked like they were conducting two unrelated symphonies in matched beats, and the words weren’t any spell he’d heard before. The glitter itched and tickled when pulled away from him, and the items in his hands, before floating up in a stream to be sealed in a translucent teal bubble Fred guided carefully out of the kitchen at the end of his wand, George clearing a path for him.

There was still a slight residue of glitter in Mrs. Weasley’s cauldron, but the bulk seemed safely contained. Until the Twins used it, of course. But that...was not his problem.

Finally freed from the glittery doom, Harry plugged the headphones in and started looking through to see what all Bowie put on the iPod for him.

Scrolling through, there was … a lot. It seemed Bowie might have completely filled all 40GB of space with everything anyone in the group liked. Harry sighed fondly and settled in to listen to Voltaire. Time with the twins had him in the mood for the spectacular, morbid puns of Cannibal Buffet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Troll outgrew them and nobody else had the same size.”  
>  Hermione rolled her eyes. _  
> Troll is in his 20s, he didn't outgrow shit, and like 3 other people wear the same size, and 'Mione knows it, but lets the fib stand.
> 
> _He hoped magic could get rid of it,_  
>  Headcanon that either Glitter is inately slightly magical and even spells have a hard time getting rid of it, though a bit less than muggle attempts at cleaning up glitter, or that glitter that's been in Bowie's hands has acquired a bit of magic and does what glitter does even when you use magic. (some of the glitter Harry was given gets used to prank the Snakes later, they are horrified that they can't get rid of it.)
> 
> _and everybody already has one...or six._  
>  Bowie. Bowie has six. No one else. Everyone else has like, one cd player, one iPod, one computer, maybe a record player. Bowie has six iPods. Not counting any other music-playing technology.
> 
> _before floating up in a stream to be sealed in a translucent teal bubble_  
>  A diaper disposal charm they nicked from their Mum, adapted to contain magical as well as biological reagents
> 
> _spectacular, morbid puns of Cannibal Buffet._  
>  If you don't know what I'm talking about, have a listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ekFLzF-oF8


	4. Interlude in POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New things are tried, confusion is had, Nazis Ruin Everything, and no POV is Harry's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LoveFest: Willowfire, FantasyTLOU, lightdefender, Solei98, introvertedpineapple, and 0_0Uta12 
> 
> Certain things demanded to be written, but Harry didn't want the spotlight, other people did instead...

Before heading out to the Portkey, Ron cornered his friends.

“Can I…,” he started, then trailed off. “Is this whole… goth thing, is that just for muggles? Or could I maybe… um.”

“You want a goth makeover?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” Ron mumbled. Hermione looked at Harry and grinned. Ron got a funny flippy feeling in his guts.

“Eyeliner?” Harry asked.

“Of course,” Hermione replied. “I have a fresh one he can have. And one of your net tops, and I have a waistcoat that’s too big for me but should fit him fine. I don’t think either of us has trousers he can wear, but we’re only going to a sporting event, jeans should be fine.”

“I’ll get the clothes, I’m sure you’re better at the eyeliner. I still end up needing Mab to help me with mine if I don’t want to look like a racoon.”

The two sprung into action with that plan, that Ron had only partly understood. Hermione sat him down and showed him the cello-wrapped pencil she was going to give him. Then she pried open his eyes like a madwoman and stuck the pencil RIGHT BY HIS EYE. Practically in it. He squirmed and Harry poked his ribs.

“If you don’t want eyeliner on your eyeball, stay still; she needs to get at your waterline, or you’ll have big rings. This is why I don’t like doing my own, I’m still scared to get close enough to the lashes. We’re all rooting for Ireland, yes? I want to pick the right colors for accessories, but I honestly don’t own much that’s green… for obvious reasons.”

“Never let a bully ruin a perfectly valid color,” Hermione said firmly. “We can wear green if we like. With Ron’s coloring he’d look good in a nice dark green. I have some camouflage print pants I can wear, although I want to do all black layers for the top; it’s probably going to be chilly and I can get a warmer outfit out of black.”

“Good point,” Harry said. “I bet your mum knows a color changing charm, I’ll ask her to do some of the net. Be right back.”

Ron let Hermione finish, then tried to look in a mirror, only to be grabbed and guided through putting on a tight shirt made of stretchy mesh in an emerald shade that exactly matched the Irish National Quidditch Team’s colors. Over that went a black tank top and a black denim thing that had probably begun life as a jacket before having the sleeves hacked off and the raw edge of half a zipper stitched to the holes.

Harry looked at Ron critically for a moment, then jumped up and rifled through his trunk, grabbing a jar of some herbal smelling goop and ran a handful through Ron's hair, pulling upwards lightly so his hair stood up.

Then they let him look in the mirror.

“Blimey, I look tough,” he said in amazement. Harry knocked fists with Hermione and tossed him the little box he’d been hooked to earlier.

“I’ve cued up some songs you might like, you can listen on the way, now let’s go!”

“I haven’t done your makeup yet, Harry,” Hermione said. “Bring it with you, I’ll do it in the car while Ron is listening to music. I was going to do mine then anyway.”

“Sure, I have black eyeliner, purple eyeliner, and a shadow palette. I don’t like lipstick so nobody gave me any, thankfully.”

“Have you tried stain? It’s not as gooey; also bring the purple it’s gonna make your eyes _ so  _ green.”

Ron didn’t really want to listen to this part of their conversation, so he put in the little ear plugs like Harry had done and poked the box. Music started and something in Ron sat up at the sharp, sarcastic wit of the words, and the terrible aching longing of the music. It was like everything he’d wanted and never known he needed, and he didn’t put it down until they were in their seats and the team mascots were flying by.

***

Draco Malfoy was deeply confused and doing his best to hide it. For one, although his mother had warned him there might be some “distasteful display of well placed pride”, he honestly hadn’t expected levitated muggles and burning tents. All the stories he’d grown up with made Wizards seem so much more intelligent and rational than the violent, superstitious Muggles. This… wasn’t that.

On another, newer but somehow more disturbing confusion, the annoying Golden Trio had shown up in the Top Box, but they looked… different. Weasley was wearing a black and green outfit that showcased strong arms and spiky red hair that danced like flame. Granger was half kitted out like his Aunt Bella, leather and metal spikes and a very obvious dagger sheath, with her eyes covered in a band of green that matched the splotchy pattern on the pants tucked into tall, heavy boots.

Worst of all, Potter, who Draco had once thought might be a possible ally, before Weasley got to him first, was… hot. No other words applied. Black mesh sleeves emerging from a long sleeveless coat implied the absence of a shirt underneath, aside from more netting which allowed only peeks at pale skin. Black trousers clung to every curve, and there were curves; Quidditch required leg muscles and Draco could see how Harry was as good as he was at staying on a broom at high speed. His eyes were startlingly green, more green than normal. Had Harry’s eyes always been that green?   
  


No, Draco told himself. Don’t think of him as Harry, think of him as Potter, it’s easier. It’s easier not to think about how Hermione looks like she could kill you, or why that’s hot. It’s easier not to question things.

Except… they were headed towards the riots, and that sat wrong with him.

“Hey, Granger,” he called. She whirled on him with a glittering blade and he bit down on the reaction that caused. “Don’t go that way.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do, Malfoy,” she snarled and suddenly Draco was more afraid for whoever she faced down than her. Especially since he was reasonably sure from the tense conversations between his parents that his father was among the masked wizards.

“Granger, they're after  _ Muggles _ . You  _ know _ they don’t particularly consider you  _ not  _ a Muggle _. _ D'you want to be showing off your knickers in midair? I know _ I  _ don’t want to see that, so maybe do everyone a favor and don’t go that way.”

Harry - _ no, Potter, get it right, Malfoy _ \- surged to her defence, but Weasley stuck his arm in front of his friend.

“Look, I’m the first to say Malfoy is a git, but that sounded like a real warning. Let’s maybe not go where ‘Mione has to stab a bloke.”

Draco heaved a sigh of relief as an explosion lit the sky with a writhing sign of green and gold, a snake coiled in and around a skull. He gasped, and shared a terrified look with Weasley as the two muggle-raised kids looked at the sky with speculative interest.

“That’s kinda badass looking,” Potter mused. “Maybe as a patch on a jacket? Or a tattoo?”

“NO,” Draco snapped. 

“Do NOT get that tattooed on you,” Ron said at the same time. They shared another look, this one of horror at the shared reaction.

“That’s the Dark Mark,” Draco said. Harry, and it wasn’t worth trying to make himself think of him as Potter anymore, but Harry needed to know. Otherwise the whole thing got muddled and awful and Draco just needed the sanity back where he could get it. “It’s the sign of the Dark Lord’s followers. A Death Eater sent that up to signal the return of the Dark Lord.”

“Oh great, Tom ruins bloody everything,” Harry muttered and Draco felt light headed. “I was gonna make something for Troll with that pattern because it goes with his whole aesthetic, but I can’t very well give a Wizard Nazi symbol to a Jewish Muggle. UGH,  _ why _ do assholes ruin everything?”

“Because they’re assholes,” Granger said philosophically. “It’s what they do best. But Malfoy is acting… uncharacteristically  _ not _ like an asshole. What gives?”

“I… I think my Father is out there and I don’t want you stabbing him,” Draco said, latching on to the only part of this mess he understood.

“He is remarkably stab-able,” she mused, “but I guess he’s probably nicer to his kid. That tracks. But you seem like the type who would find it a great laugh to let Harry think a sign of Tom’s was cool looking.”

“None of you make sense, that’s why!” Draco snapped. “You look like my side and you’re supposed to stay on your side. Awful, dopey do gooders who make everyone get mixed up and I just want you to go back to staying in your boxes, for Merlin’s sake!”

“Oh Draco,” she sighed. “I don’t  _ do  _ boxes. It’s just not worth it.”

“I do,” Harry said. “I get it. I had my reality tunnel run over sideways when I met Mab. I’m used to being one person  _ there _ , and a different one at Hogwarts. Mab and Troll and Tick and Pink and Bowie, they made me want to mix them up, but it’s hard.”

“STOP EMPATHIZING AND BEING CONFUSING AND AWFUL,” Draco yelled, and two sets of hands latched onto his arms.

“We were looking for you, Ronnie-kins,” said one twin, appearing out of the ether like Weasleys seemed wont to.

“Dad was awful worried,” said the other. “Especially since they found Harry’s wand, but no Harry.”

“What?” said Harry, patting his pockets. “Oh, of course I lost it. Because that’s how it goes. Let me guess, someone used it to cast a spell and I’m expelled?”

“What? No,” said the twin on the right. “I mean, yes, someone used it, but it’s pretty clear it wasn’t you, and the Statute of Secrecy went out the window when that family got kidnapped. Dad and the Minister were worried she’d mugged you for it. House elves are tough.” 

***

While her husband and children were off at the World Cup, Molly Weasley stared at her right hand, thinking hard. She'd felt a tingle when Mabon clasped her hand, not like the sharp tug of a vow being sworn, but like a contract or alliance being agreed upon. It was weaker than she was used to such things being, hardly noticeable when there are six children to corral, but  _ there _ nonetheless. 

Muggles had no magic for a contract to seal in such a manner. If Mab had no magic, she wouldn't have felt a thing; if she'd been able to use a wand, the tingle would have been unmistakable, unavoidably obvious. Not a witch then, but not  _ truly _ a muggle either, a grey area in the law. And if she was going to be taking in Harry...

Nodding firmly, Molly grabbed her hat and cloak. She had school shopping to do, and a new friend to pick up on the way. And an entire world to explain. Not to mention current events and old history that has decided to play a role in the now.

Perhaps she should inquire about that bruise salve Harry was carrying around. It certainly worked well on the quidditch injuries all the boys came into the house with most days. Smelled a damned sight nicer than the potions she regularly bought, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vests and waistcoats are two Very Different Things in Brittain. Ditto Pants and Trousers. I did try to keep them straight, but may have missed some, We're American, after all.
> 
>  _a jar of some herbal smelling goop_  
>  Yep, Harry's using the bruise salve as pomade for Ron. Mab Said He Could!
> 
>  _said one twin, appearing out of the ether like Weasleys seemed wont to._  
>  They came from bloody fucking nowhere! Without apparating! Weasleys! Everywhere!
> 
> They do that, do you have any idea how many Weasleys there ARE? Draco doesn't, He loses the math any farther back than "Arthur and Molly Weasley have half a dozen sons and a daughter". Of COURSE there are Weasleys everywhere.
> 
> Poor Draco. He's so confused. He's supposed to be annoyed by them existing, and then they go and be hot while being dressed in things not out-of-place among the Dark wizards and witches and then being _nice_. He's having a bit of a melt down here. Suddenly needing to reassess your sexuality does that. 
> 
> Molly Adopts Everyone With Very Little Prompting.


	5. Correspondence and Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters and gifts exchange hands the first few weeks of Hogwarts' School Year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies, Bairn here. We are officially changing the canon timeline because it literally is the WORST way to put a big magic tourney thing into a functioning school year. You will see notes letting you know when stuff is happening, if it isn't clear from context. Bye, Canon, we dismiss you.
> 
> Love Fest! We love all our readers, but FantasyTLOU and Joey99 took that extra step of feeding the muses and as we all know _TheMusesHunger_ so thank you!

Dear Mab,

I got to school safely! It’s a bit colder up here than it would be at home, but Mrs. Weasley sent lots of jumpers with us, so you needn’t worry.

I just realized how weird it is to call Little Whinging “home”. Haven’t done that in four years.

Anyways, two interesting things have happened. One, my school is hosting some big inter-school tournament thing. Apparently it was banned for a few years and they’re just starting it back up? I can’t compete, it’s only for students 17 and up, on account of the reasons it was banned, but it means I won’t get to do any sports and normally I’m on my house’s team. It’ll be fun to see something different though!

Secondly, and more what I need to tell you… I have a friend? We met a few years ago and he wasn’t in a great place, so I helped him get out of there. Only then he couldn’t find anywhere to stay or get a job or anything. So my headmaster ended up hiring him, and this friend of his got let go at her last place because of some REAL STUPIDITY. Dobby is okay, he’s settling in nicely, but Winky has some issues and I need a sewing kit and some scrap fabric right away. Discarded stuff only, I can’t explain why but it matters that it’s only what would be thrown out, and preferably not anything that started as clothing. (Oh, and any mismatched socks, Dobby has a collection.)

My love to the rest, tell Bowie his gift even works all the way up here and I thought we wouldn’t be able to use it! The area’s a bit like the Bermuda Triangle and tech tends to go wonky. I need to figure out a better charging arrangement, but it’s really helpful.

Wit

P.S. Please give Hedwig a mouse, and any return letters. Oh, and give Sheila a scritch on the head for me!

P.P.S. Do Sparkles or Wrath have any trousers or jeans they want to get rid of? I got Ron into the whole thing and he’s a lot bulkier than I am so I can’t lend him mine.

Dearest Wit,

Pardon the uninvited correspondence, Mab went a bit spare over a project she is working on (shhh, secret!) and I am house sitting. I have fed the Owl, and after negotiation, preened her. I did not open the letter as it was addressed to Mab, however I would not object if you wished to send Owl-based correspondence my way in the future. I quite enjoy the concept and would like to know if the trainer you obtained this beautiful lady from is perhaps able to provide other messenger birds, and if so, might I have their business card? Mab will be back in a few days, I will give her the letter then. If you require a reply package, please re-send the Owl three days hence.

Kindest Regards,

Yrs forever,

Hela

Dear All,

The Owl is named Hedwig. She likes mice and bacon. Other unspiced meat will work if you lack mice and bacon, but she’ll give you a Look over offerings below her refined standards. If you see her, you can give her letters for me. She also carries parcels, and will tell you if it’s too heavy.

Wit

P.S. Hela, the Owls are from someplace I’ve been told not to bring outsiders, and privacy maintains. Let me know your needs more specifically this summer and I can arrange to get you one.

Dear Wit,

Sorry I wasn’t able to reply at first. I had to go talk to normals and you know how I get after that. I wore white to blend in better (yes, I have some white in my closet of doom, specifically for this purpose) and I swear it gave me hives. Vvornth helped me get my calm back and Hela watched the house.

I’m glad you have good, warm clothes, expect some more… aesthetically pleasing ones at Christmas, Molly has been writing me, too. I’m also glad you seem excited about the sports thing, I remain blissfully ignorant of it all, so may I simply say “sports hard! Go sportsball! Yay Wit’s Team!” and perhaps wear a colour in honor, should you tell me which colour is the one we’re rooting for.

I had to double check the package weights with Hedwig, you’ll need to send her back for a second round, but I prioritized the immediate needs. Enclosed should be one (1) hand sewing kit, one (1) curtain in red, some beadwork/ruffles removed, two (2) pillowcases, one in black ruffles one with Sally from Nightmare, pardon the coffee stain on the back, one (1) gallon bag of assorted embellishments double reinforced with duct tape, and a book on pattern drafting techniques. I hope they help. Next batch will include pants, spare socks, and some more cabbage. Dru and I are going through the supplies now to get out all the stuff that I probably ought to recycle anyway.

All my love, always,

Mab

***

It took him some time to figure out exactly how to do the patterning, because he did NOT want the result to look like clothes. Winky had been sent off in a trim outfit of blue that, when he asked about in the Kitchens, was about as insulting a thing as Crouch could have done. Even Dobby’s Sock of Trickery was more socially acceptable among his fellow Elves than the multiple articles of clothing Winky had been forced to accept.

While there were parts of the whole House Elf Situation that didn’t sit well (Hermione muttering Slave Labor and twitching her fingers at the dining table was no more irritation than he felt) a respectable culture had cropped up in the wake of whatever ancient enchantment forced the Elves to act as they did. Respecting the culture was important, even as Harry wanted to find and set ablaze the crypt of the Wizards who had Enchanted a whole race into slavishly obedient serfs with limited free will and a compulsion to self harm when considering rebellion.

He ended up taking the curtain to Parvati and asking her how to make it wrap like a sari. He had to cut it in half and do the ends up together for length, but it was worth it when he showed Winky.

“This is a curtain. It’s a little changed, but you see the casing for the rod? And these loose thread bits, those are where the person who bought the curtain snipped off the beadwork to use in crafts. She wasn’t going to use this, it’s discarded.”

“But Winky was a bad elf, was… freed.”

“Freedom is scary but it doesn’t have to make you unhappy,” Harry said, putting a bit of Wit into his voice. “I know you can’t say it and I won’t ask you to, but Crouch was a jerk for making you wear something you hate. You hate these clothes like Dobby hated his pillowcase, and nobody should make anyone wear something they hate.”

“But Winky can’t wear this, this is House Elf stuff, and Winky is ashamed.”

“I can show you how to wear it like the Patil sisters wear their formal saris if it would feel better, but I’m not sure if you really need to be wearing clothes that upset you. Did Dumbledore make you take wages like Dobby? Or did he let you work like you’re used to, with the barter for discarded items?”

“Winky doesn’t want PAYING, Sir. Harry Potter is very mistaken if he be thinking Winky is that kind of Elf.”

“Then technically, you aren’t a Free Elf. You  _ were _ a Freed Elf, but in time that might fade because you’re a Hogwarts Elf now. This is a  _ gift,  _ not payment. It's not for anything you’ve done. It's because it's… my people believe that it's  _ wrong _ to let any being be harmed by another when they can do something about it. Clothes harmed you, I want to get rid of the thing hurting you and give you something that doesn’t. Because you are a sapient being and you deserve that respect."

“Gifts… aren’t something House Elves think about. Not bad-wrong like paying, but not… not something we do.” 

Harry smiled, "Gifts are very much things Goths do. They adopted me and I wound up with dozens of things I didn't ask for, but they thought I needed, so I got them  _ just because they thought I needed them." _

“Winky can try wearing the curtain-sari if Harry Potter tells her to.” She looked at him and shook her head. “Not because Winky does not like the… gift. Because if Harry Potter  _ tells  _ Winky to wear the curtain-sari it is a more House Elf action, doing as told. The gift is be helping Winky feel more like a proper House Elf... telling Winky things to do is the gift.”

“If I brought you more barter-things and asked… told... you to use them or wear them, would that help?”

“Maybe. No more clothes-type things, please. Except pouches.”

“Pouches?”

“Bluey, the head House Elf here, has pouches and pins to attach to his pillowcase; they hold useful items, but they is not clothes. Pouches are wonderful.”

Harry nodded, “I can get you pouches. What else would help?”

“Winky doesn’t like working with so many other House Elves. It is loud here, and noisy, and someone is leaving hats and mittens all over so we cannot clean properly. Winky misses having a Family, Sir. If Harry Potter wants a House Elf….”

“I’m not old enough to sign any kind of contract, but… I know someone who is and if you explain very clearly what you do and don’t want and what would be insulting to you or upsetting she wouldn’t ever do something you’d hate. Or ask you to go up on high places like the Top Box. Or refuse to listen to your side of the story if something goes wrong.” 

He started thinking about how hard it would be to keep the statute of secrecy if he followed through on this plan, but his mouth had already gotten down the lane too far to turn back. Maybe he wouldn’t get expelled if he never said anything, and Winky did all the talking? If he did get expelled, Mab would still take him, she had said so that night, somewhere between bruise salve and bed. Then again, aesthetic tastes was  _ not  _ the only way in which many of the goths were NotOrdinaryMuggles.

“Ma wouldn’t hurt you, and she’d stop anyone else from hurting you too,” Harry said, feeling misty eyed. “Even you. You’ll have to warn her about the self harm compulsion so she can order you not to do that, or she’ll be upset.”

“Winky understands. Winky thinks Harry Potter’s Ma sounds very good. Winky will go ask her if she be wanting a House Elf. Harry Potter is a good manling. Almost like a House Elf.”

She poofed out and he heard rustling in the cupboard he knew was her room, so he left to let her get changed.

A good House Elf? He hadn’t considered it, but yeah, how he’d lived with the Dursleys most of his life was pretty close. Lived in a cupboard, check. Wore clothing that was shabby and discarded, check. Served the Family of the House, but wasn’t a member of said family? Check check checkity CHECK. Hurt himself at the thought of speaking out? Well… maybe? Before this summer he would have said no. He’d never been the type to self harm. But wasn’t swallowing down all the things he wanted to say hurting him? Didn’t it taste like ashes when he pretended to love the Dursleys in front of the neighbors? Was there that much difference in Dobby or Winky slamming a hand in a drawer after insulting their masters, and Harry choosing to say what he’d been thinking all week because at least once Vernon belted him the thought would be curled up and quiet?

If it weren’t for the Goths, he could have turned out like the House Elves. Subservient by habit and always looking for that next abuse, that next blow, the next time someone was going to expect him to do something for everyone but him. Maybe even craving it… considering how many times already he’d run into danger at a school full of adults who should in theory know what they’re doing. Sure, Lockhart was a liar and going to get Ginny killed, and nobody else suspected anyone had gotten as far as Quirrell had, but in all seriousness that mess at Shrieking Shack and Dumbledore basically telling them to use the time turner… why had he agreed to that? Why would anyone agree to that? What’s next? Being told to die so Voldemort stops messing with the school?

“Fuck that,” Harry said. He needed music and dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Cabbage: in this context, bits and bobs of scrap fabric left over when you cut a shape from fabric for making something.  
> Went a bit spare: got worked up and overextended herself to a point of being a bit crazy.
> 
> Notes:  
> One, Harry isn't saying Quidditch because Secrecy Laws. Two, Harry isn't bothering to pretend it's Football or something because he knows Mab neither understands nor wants to understand Sportsball as a category. None of the Goths are anywhere near as Jock as Harry is. She loves the way he loves it, but that's it.
> 
> Capital letters will be used to distinguish ordinary non-postal owls from the Owls that carry post for Wizards and are as a result (selective breeding or magic radiation, take your pick of reasons) somewhat more sapient, and capable of leaning how to navigate new cities and read maps and street signs.
> 
> Hela is the Goth who looks vaguely like Lady Malfoy and makes friends with birds. She is the source of almost all of Mab's hair feathers, as she works out trade agreements with the local corvids of food+grooming in exchange for any feathers that fall out during grooming, and occasionally shiny rocks or metal bits.
> 
> Hedwig and Sheila the Ball Python are absolutely besties. They have gossip sessions over "tea". The tea is mice and bacon. They talk about which places they've found the best mice. Which places make mice that taste funny. what their two-leggers got up to lately. How much care their twoleggers need.
> 
> After this, Mab was seen sequestered with several different types of twine and wooden dowels, a physics book, an aerodynamics book, and a bird anatomy book, trying to figure out a system to enable Hedwig to carry more with less strain. The net result is a semi-rigid net shaped aerodynamically attached to a padded rod to make it more comfortable for Owls to carry.
> 
> From a Folkloric perspective, the House Elves are a branch of Shoemaker Elves. Per Shoemaker Elf Rules, while an Elf is "In Service" to a Human, they have the right to take any item or material reasonably classed as "discarded" for their own use. Shoemaker Elves make their own clothes from said items and take pride in their craftsmanship. The gift of clothes in that tale resulted in the Elves walking off the job site in fury over perceived insult to their extant wardrobe (and the implication of vassal-hood as lords had to clothe their serfs.)  
> From a world building What Does This Mean To Plot perspective, Shoemaker Elves (SE) were a natural species of magical creature considered "helpful pests" like spiders. At some point, an evil, stupid wizard (ESW) decided to use a variant on an obsession spell (like amortentia) to make the "helpful" parts more exploitable while limiting the "pest" (read: agency and free will and self care) parts less. So an already industrious group shifted from "I do for others after having done for myself because boredom" to "Do for my Master and if I have energy left do for me" and tossed in a self-harm compulsion in reaction to rebellious thoughts/words/actions. ESW used the clothes thing as a key to get rid of them when you no longer wanted them, but neglected to let that also end the compulsions. Dobby is a sport off this new line that is MUCH closer to the original SE personality with almost no retained curse effects once freed aside from lingering effects of abuse.
> 
> Culturally speaking, TELLING Winky to do something she might enjoy is more effective at solving the actual problem (social repercussions for violating taboo) than just giving her the option to enjoy something. Especially if the thing she's told to do is also practical or would allow her to do a better job of service. Pouches, being not-quite-pockets and therefore a grey zone, are tremendously useful and have social cache (like a brand name purse might in some human societies) to ease off her social worries in the Hogwarts house-elf colony.
> 
> We do actually have plans for all the various ways in which the Goths are NotMuggles while also being NotWizards. Essentially, branches of magic that don't use wands or exotic potion ingredients, that have often subtle effects and aren't considered "Wizardry or Witchcraft" by Wizarding standards. Not that they aren't HELLA EFFECTIVE when mastered, but they're not the stuff the world we see in canon would think to include.


	6. Severus Snape and the Revelation of Goth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape has five reasons at least for every action he makes. Uncomfortable Honesty Hour hits everyone. Nobody escapes the confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Few things:  
> This chapter and chapter 9 are both more than half-again what we usually post, next chapter will be very short for us, and 8 and 10 are a bit above our average length...
> 
> Canon has left the building. Officially. It no longer exists. We are aware that somethings didn't happen until book5, 6, or 7, and have decided those decisions were stupid and have elected to ignore them, resolving issues Much earlier.
> 
> We usually explain a lot in end notes, but there's some things we just aren't going to explain, because they are explained in chapters we have already finished writing.
> 
> (Edit: Oh right, that's what I forgot... Warning: Spilled Plot Juice and Rabid Feels attacking)
> 
> Cruxshadows "Spectators" verse 2.
> 
> LoveFest:dellabelle, diabolicArbitor, lightdefender, Corvus_of_the_Night_Skies, mishaleh, kuro_neko_deamon, Gbadvocate09, Kira_1996, ClockWeasel, Magic_Muffins, wussa, Hallows_Den, Shaded, Joey99, Masqueradewitch, LaughingCat, Aaahlex, and 9 guest Kudoers, with bonus points going to mishaleh, FantasyTLOU, Joey99, and lightdefender for feeding the Muses.
> 
> Takes place September 10th, 2004. (year 4)

Dancing, it seemed, would not be happening today. Hermione was trying to get Ron to Actually Read a Book, or at least find out why he wouldn’t, again. (He’d narrowly avoided a thrown text and a bout of cussing that would make Troll coo in delight when he’d gone to find them and figured ‘Mione was nearer to solving the riddle and he should leave them to it.) And Harry didn't feel up to the accusations of mental instability not even two weeks into the year should he be caught dancing by himself. Music though…

Feeling a longing for home he hadn't ever experienced before at Hogwarts, he found an unused classroom and pulled out his iPod. 

(For four years he'd had things that were _his_ and only his. It still felt strange to think of things that way. He didn't think he'd be taking something as simple as _having things_ for granted any time soon. Ron probably wouldn't either, really.) 

Shaking off the awe he still felt at the gifts his new, chosen family gave him without a thought, Harry plugged in his headphones, and cued up a memory. Thinking of Mab laying in the grass without a care for her fine quality corset, he couldn't help but sing along as he laid back on several desks pushed together in the corner, kicking his heels up on the wall.

***

Severus Snape ~~wandered~~ patrolled the corridors. Given that the last classes of the day were over, and it was yet a few hours till dinner, his options for activities were slightly expanded to being out-and-about and seen so as to discourage mischief, or grading papers in his office. As Madam Pomfrey was at him again about sunlight and exercise, and he did not relish the idea of being cornered in his office by twits, patrolling the first three floors was his choice. At least it gave him a few hours’ reprieve from reading the utter travesty his students perpetually turned in called essays. Putting torture off for a later date was his favorite skill. Once, there had been a class on proper writing, format, vocabulary, _grammar_. Not a single professor didn’t hate Dumbledore at least a little for doing away with it, budget or no.

He was sorely tempted to just point out the appropriate books in the Library and then fail everyone who doesn’t bother to learn to write. Even if Dumbledore made that disappointed face at him for it.

He paused for a moment at a window (so he could truthfully say he’d been in the Sunlight five whole minutes, if Poppy asks, check) to scowl down at some students in the courtyard (lending some truth to the claim of patrolling the corridors, if McGonagall asks, check; maintaining his reputation as Scary Dark Wizard if Dumbledore asks, check; five more minutes neither grading essays or actually putting up with the nonsense of the unholy tyrants running around his House, claiming to be True SlytherinsTM when they couldn’t connive their way out of a wet paperbag, check.)

As his internal clock ticked over and he allowed himself to turn away from the window and its brightness, a strain of music caught his ear, simultaneously new and _familiar._ Students usually listened to music in their dorms or the common rooms, so why was he hearing music down _here_? 

Following the sound, he found himself in a hall that was familiar for reasons that had nothing to do with the 13 years he’d taught at the school, a hall he had, in fact, strenuously avoided being in since spring of his fifth year as a student. Swallowing the nausea that always arose when he thought of how severely he’d fucked up that day, he straightened his shoulders and continued to follow the sound to a heartbreakingly familiar door, the words of the song becoming audible as he drew near.

_When the people downtown are freezing_

_sometimes you cannot hide_

_so what can you do it’s often true_

_that we shift away our eyes_

Lily. The voice singing in the room wasn’t hers, but it rang with the same depth of _feeling_ Lily’d always had when she sang along to their smuggled-in records in this very room. Steeling himself for pain, he quietly opened the door, so as not to disturb the person within.

Some things were still sacred to him, Lily.

_but maybe that moment’s ours to live_

_and maybe that's what we were for_

_as fate will share a chance with you_

_to open up your door_

Severus froze. The voice singing in the room that he still thought of as _hers_ , with feeling like _her,_ in _her_ spot on the desks, heels kicked up on the wall, like _her,_ painting his nails black, like _her,_ was _Potter._ His feet even perfectly fit in the scuff marks _her_ boots had permanently imprinted on the wall.

_And everyone will say "I told you so"_

_yeah they'll all just nod and sigh_

_but I'll make a run at something real_

_and they'll never even try_

Something broke in him. Some lie he’d told himself over and over to brace the support beams that kept him upright and moving, living to the expectations of several very different men at once, keeping everyone but himself happy with him, fell apart.

He wasn’t “James Potter’s son.” He was _hers._

_and everyone will say "I told you so"_

_yeah they'll all just nod and sigh_

_as I go down in a ball of flames_

_they'll just watch, I wonder why_

Lily was going to kill him. She’d be right to. He groaned… and green eyes looked up.

***

In the breath between the second chorus and the bridge, Harry heard a pained noise and looked up.

Professor Snape stood in the doorway, his face simultaneously completely straight and doing something that looked...complicated. A part of Harry wondered idly if he could learn to do that; he’d get in so much less trouble if he could keep words in his mouth and emotions difficult to read on his face.

The rest of Harry was worried he might be about to be in trouble. He paused the playback of music and sat up, pulling the headphones from his ears.

“Sorry, Professor. If I’m not supposed to be here…” Harry began to apologize.

Professor Snape sighed, “Keep your seat, Mr. Potter. I’m not about to scold you for using the room. It hasn’t been used for this purpose in...far too long.”

“This purpose, Professor?”

He could have sworn Snape almost smirked, he had to be mistaken.

“Look at the wall where your feet were, Mr. Potter.”

Harry cringed, there were footprints on the wall, but they’d been there before he put his feet up… “Those aren’t mine, sir. I swear they were there-- “

“Before. Yes. I know they aren’t yours. Those, Mr. Potter, are your mother’s boot prints.”

His…? “My mother’s?”

Professor Snape wasn’t looking at him, he was staring at a spot on the wall, touching it as if there was something precious there. He swallowed, looking pained.

“I owe you an apology, Mr. Potter,” He almost whispered, Harry barely heard him, and wasn’t sure he believed his ears. _Snape_ apologizing just doesn’t _happen._ “I should not have allowed what my eyes showed me to make me forget that however much you are your Father’s son, you are just as much your Mother’s.”

Harry wasn’t sure it was actually possible to be more confused. “I wouldn’t know,” he said, just as quietly. 

The professor snorted, “Of course, whatever family you were placed with told you all about your oh-so-glorious father and nothing about your far better, far _kinder_ parent.”

“Er- No, sir. Actually, I’ve learned more about my dad from you than from anyone else. You knew my mum, too?”

Snape was looking at him now, staring, actually, as if he had just said the sky was chartreuse with purple polka dots. “What?”

“The only things I know about my parents are that I look like my dad with my mum’s eyes, they were killed by Voldemort sometime when I was a baby, they both had magic, specifically that mum had always been ‘weird’. Dad had four friends, one was a twit who got them killed, one was a secret werewolf, and the other might have got you killed by secret werewolf if Dad hadn’t saved you. Oh, and that you thought dad was an arrogant bully. And most of that I only learned last spring.”

Professor Snape _twitched_ but, interestingly, not when he said Moldy’s name like everyone else does. He twitched at the _end_ of Harry’s statement, when it was clear he wasn’t going to list anything else.

“Surely your family,” he began, only to stop when Harry shook his head no.  
  
“No, sir. Aunt Petunia only told me they died in a car crash while dad was ‘drunk, no doubt.’”

“. . . And why would _Petunia Evans,_ be responsible for telling you how your parents died?” he sneered at the name, harder than he sneered at Neville’s potions, thereby confirming to Harry that he did, indeed, know both his mum and aunt, no one sneered that hard about Petunia unless they’d _met_ her. 

But Harry was confused… “I thought you knew I was raised by relatives?”

“Yes, but surely Dumbledore put you with someone -- _anyone --_ less vile than that woman?”

“Aunt Petunia and her son Dudley are the only blood relations I have left.”

And now Harry was _really_ confused; Professor Snape looked like someone had just slapped him with a half-rotted fish.

“Hogwash. Damned near _every_ pure-blood family has married a Black at some point, Potters included. Which means half of Wizarding Britain, from the Weasleys to the Longbottoms to the Malfoys, are related to you by blood.”

“Dumbledore said--”

“ _Dumbledore_ has said a great many things to a great many people, I’m beginning to wonder how many things _Dumbledore said_ were actually true, and how many were implied lies. _True from a certain point of view._ ”

“What, are you Darth Vader now?”

“I am _not_ your father, if that’s what you’re asking, _Luke._ ”

“ _How_ do you know that reference?”

“My best friend was a muggle born, and a proud nerd. You really think she didn’t insist I go see it?”

“Wait… your best… my… mum?”

Snape sighed. “Lily Evans was the best witch, the best _person_ , I ever had the pleasure of knowing, and I made a great many mistakes that led to you not knowing this. I think… I have a lot to make up for. I just don’t quite know how at the moment. There have been vows made to not say some things, and I am constrained to behave appropriately to a Death Eater to keep both _Dumbledore_ and any remaining Death Eaters from taking it from my hide.”

“Loophole,” Harry said. “If the vows say not to say anything. You can write it. I need to write too, because this is… a lot, honestly, and I need to put this in a letter to Mab or I’m gonna explode. There might still be some parchment in the desk.”

He opened the drawer to the teacher’s desk, and squinted at the leatherette box inside. He pulled it out and put it on the desk, and then dug out more paper from underneath. He fished a mechanical pencil from his robes, and settled down by his mother’s boot prints to write.

***

Snape looked at the box, stunned to see it still here. He’d thought Lily had taken their smuggled-in record player with her when they graduated. While _Lily’s son_ settled in to writing feverishly -- and he made a mental note to check the boy’s hands for injuries, the way he held the pencil was _all wrong_ for anything BUT a poorly-healed hand injury -- the potions master approached the baby blue, dust covered box gingerly, as if he expected it to explode on him at any moment. 

He ran his fingers lightly over the top, in awe of the gift of memory its continued existence represented.

“H- … P-...” sighing, Snape tried again, “ _Lilyson.”_

When ...the boy looked up with a raised eyebrow, Snape scowled. “What? I’m your professor, it would be unprofessional of me to call you by your first name while on school grounds, and calling you by your father’s last name … aids and abets the fallacy that caused half of my behaviour towards you anyways.”

“Yes, but I’m my own person and I’d rather not be called by someone else’s name. I’m not half a Lily any more than I am half a James, and it’s frankly weird to me that you need to associate me with a parent to know how to treat me. You can call me Wit.”

“I cannot call you that _in the classroom_ , which ought to be obvious. Could I please call you Mr. Evans, perhaps? You have as much right to that family name as you do Potter. And I am actually required, as all professors here are, to use your family name when acting as your professor. It’s in the contract.”

Harry scrunched his brow in thought for a moment, “And doing that with ‘Potter’ removes the distinguishing feature that keeps me separate in your head from my dad?”

“ _Yes._ I only ever called him by his last name, never his first, much like you do the younger Mr. Malfoy. _”_

Harry nodded, “Then when you _are_ ‘acting as my professor’, _you_ may call me Mr. Evans, but when we’re,” he motioned between them, “like this, I’d prefer you call me Wit. Mab, the lady who gave me … well, _goth_ , gave me the name. I’d like you to use it when you can.” He whispered, and Snape’s sharp ears just barely made out the words, “I’d like to be more than just _Harry Boy-Who-Should-Have-Died Potter_.”

Severus swallowed thickly and pretended not to have heard. “I can do that, _Wit._ ”

Shaking himself to break the mood, something inside him screaming _DistractHim,_ Severus looked back down at the box in front of him and smiled softly. Lily to the rescue, as always. "I wonder…" he reached down into the footwell under the desk, where damaged wood gave way to a hollow that used to be the bottom drawer of the desk, and pulled out the stack of vinyls he found there. 

"Here, Wit, this is why _we_ came to this room."

He opened the box gently, revealing the old record player within it, and put the first album on the stack in.

Both still played, as if they hadn't been left in that room for seventeen or so years. As if it was just yesterday.

Leaning back as Sisters of Mercy’s _First and Last and Always_ poured from the speaker, Severus leaned back and began flipping idly through the stack of records and the memories it held. _Memories._ An idea for later, loopholes, as Ha- _Wit_ said. Wit deserved to know, and if he couldn’t _tell_ him… A very Slytherin idea, for a Gryffindor. These albums and Lily’s player were a good way to start, until he could fake a detention for him in his office, where he kept memories and a pensieve no one knew he had locked away…

At the bottom of the stack was one more record, wrapped in what had been plain brown paper until Lily got her hands on it. It had been doodled on extensively. Before or after wrapping, he couldn’t guess. Lily was prone to doing both. As he had always done with gifts from his heart-sister, he opened it carefully, so he could save the pictures. His eyes immediately landed on an envelope taped to the cellophane. He didn’t even notice who or what the album was.

***

"What's that?" Harry asked. He could see the shocked, sideswiped look on his teacher’s tired face, and figured it would be best to handle it like Ron when letters from family came. Goad him into talking it out.

"It's… a gift. From her."

"What's the album?" Harry asked, leaning in. "I… it's interesting that my mum was into all this, and I am too, but I got to it by chance."

Snape looked away from the envelope on the front long enough to answer his question, “Through the Looking Glass by Siouxie Sioux and the Banshees… It,” he swallowed, mouth suddenly very dry, “it came out the year we graduated, almost two years after your mother and I stopped talking.”

“Why?”  
  
Snape -- and maybe he should find something else to call his professor, for the same reasons he had asked to call Harry something else -- looked at him like he was mad again. “I have no idea why she bought me an album long after we stopped talking.”   
  
Harry rolled his eyes, “No, why did you stop talking?”

“...I fucked up. The reasons, _excuses,_ don’t matter.”

“No, they usually don’t. Did you apologize?”

“No. I did not.”

Harry waited a moment, but the professor didn’t elaborate on his own. “Why not?”

Snape was staring at the envelope again, Harry almost didn’t hear his answer. “Because even if she had forgiven me, by no means guaranteed, I didn’t _deserve_ to be forgiven.”

Harry wondered if you could strain your eyes by rolling them too much. “Forgiveness isn’t about what anyone _deserves, Severus_. Put the album on. Read the letter."

_Yes, Lily._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _a few hours’ reprieve_  
>  Procrastination, Thy name is Severus. (Autocorrect suggested Troll. Troll just nodded like "Yeah, that's fair." Troll has been an Ass lately and thus has been whined about extensively)
> 
> _keeping everyone but himself happy with him,_  
>  Any one of the three he has to appease regularly (Dumbledope, Moldyshorts, Luscious Malfoy, no those aren't typos) being less than happy with him means some kind of pain is incoming. So keeping them happy is more important than keeping himself happy.  
> Severus: (doesn't deserve to be happy anyways.)  
> Lily: Happiness isn't about deserve, Sevvy. *eyeroll*
> 
> _touching it as if there was something precious there._  
>  A small bit of vandalism, charmed by Lily to be invisible to anyone but them, an infinity symbol with their initials in it, like a sibling version of the heart and initials occasionally found carved on trees.
> 
> _I’ve learned more about my dad from you than from anyone else._  
>  Remus was vague and sugar-coaty in book 3, and Harry hasn't yet had much opportunity to talk with Sirius about his parents yet, so he doesn't have many details he's sure he can take as truth.
> 
> _“How do you know that reference?”_  
>  Beta-readers were somewhat confused as to how **Harry** knew that reference. On the one hand, Dudley is allowed to watch anything he pleases so long as it doesn't have magic, so Harry may have seen bits and pieces there. On the other, he's now had 2 months with the goths who most assuredly would have been offended by his lack of exposure, and set to correcting it straight away. Probably with a vociferous debate on the correct order to watch them in.
> 
> _leatherette box inside._  
>  https://www.amazon.com/Crosley-CR8005A-TU-Portable-Turntable-Turquoise/dp/B00990Z4W6
> 
> _the way he held the pencil was all wrong_  
>  If you have ever broken your dominant arm or wrist... he's still holding his writing implements as if he were wearing a cast. It makes for very sloppy writing, but minimizes pain and fatigue.


	7. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hedwig gets a work out, Mab is Ticked, Troll is a troll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short interlude, longer chapters coming soon.
> 
> LoveFest: hhhellcat, justjusticexv, 9lunala_lovegood9, Ainain, QuietTiger, bazzy, and 4 guest Kudoers  
> Bonus points to: FantasyTLOU, ClockWeasel, Joey99, and hhhellcat

Dear All,

I must have written and rewritten this letter five times. So much has happened and I don't know how to handle any of it. One, someone who I thought was just a git turned out more like us than expected. He's still been a colossal cunt most of my time here, but he was friends with my mum at one point, apparently? And he's carting around way more baggage than I thought. Enough it… not excuses, but  _ explains _ a whole lot. No idea how to handle that, but we're working on it.

The cabbage has been really well received, thank you everyone. It's becoming pouches and other sundry pocket like things, so obviously you have given to a good cause. In fact there's more than one person now interested in them, so please keep it coming. (Mione and I are getting better at sewing now that Ron's been helping us. His mum taught him loads of tricks to make it faster.)

The big sports thing is happening soon. We have the other schools coming in to stay here temporarily, so our classes might get a bit bigger. One of them is supposed to be French, so if Dru can send me that French phrasebook, I would appreciate it.

I've been having a weird feeling lately, I don't know why. It helps to listen to Óðr albums. I really wish you guys could come up here. I miss you.

Anyways, if I keep writing, this letter will get a sixth rewrite and that's just ridiculous, so I'm stopping for now.

All my love,

Wit

Wit,

We've just come from a group meeting with Molly. You can stop talking around it, we all know now. Molly told  _ me _ while you were at your SportsballThing, but now we all know. Bowie probably already knew, but he's being a prat about it. You can imagine my eye roll here.

We're glad the cabbage was well received, and this letter is accompanied by the requested phrasebook and three (3) workbooks. We'll work on getting together a kit of tapes, so you can practice pronunciation properly.

~~ Yours, ~~

We don't want you to be alone right now. You're going through a lot, and nobody's runes/cards/assorted oracles are happy about you at the moment. That includes Molly, by the by. We're coming up. Dumbles can deal with it. (Molly told me about last year, with the Dementors. I am NOT happy with your headmaster at the moment.)

All my love,

Your Ma

  
  
  


Ma-

That’s ILLEGAL, be very very very careful, you will get MIB’d so hard if you don’t take care. Nobody is supposed to know. Still talking around it because Owls can be intercepted.

Sorry, had to go reassure Hedwig I have faith in her.

But yes, get here and get here soon. Per standing tradition, the Defence teacher has gone off the rails and is probably going to try to kill me before year’s end. Probably because Nazis, somehow. If you can’t convince Molly to get you there, tell her he’s teaching us how to resist Unforgivables. Show her this letter. Yeah, you read that right. He’s using Unforgivables on students. This time it was just Imperio on me, but it could get so much worse. By the way, Mab, that calm, not-stressed feeling you said was how most people feel? The ‘not calculating how to prevent anyone being visibly upset at you all the bloody time’ thing? I felt it! I was being mentally puppeted by a madman to jump on a desk at the time, but I felt it. Not sure if I’m a fan.

Get here soonest.

Your Wit

Wit,   
  
Apparently, it’s technically NOT illegal (though not precisely legal either.) Most of us have a bit of  _ some _ kind of magic, even if it’s not the same as your lot’s, and the rest count as family members. Family is  _ always _ allowed to know, as long as you can be sure it doesn’t go beyond that, even in non-magical top-secret situations. And, turns out, our little clan thing is, in fact, recognized by Magic as family. It only takes a drop of Black to make grey, you know... 

You know how much we LOVE legal grey areas. There’s so much elbow room there. Also, I need to figure out if those chocolate frog things are kosher.

Soon,

Troll

  
  


DAMMIT, TROLL!

I had to go hunt down the six Jewish students in school and ask them. Two are Slytherins and hate me on principal, and most are Ravenclaws who think I’m completely unhinged. The Slytherins say they are kosher as they don’t eat bugs, carion, or refuse. The Ravenclaws got into a debate about whether an animation charm qualifies as making something actually count as being “alive” and if that means chocolate frogs count as actual frogs regardless of the fact they don’t have any frog DNA in them at all. I left before they settled it, as it didn’t look like they’d finish any time this decade. The lone Hufflepuff dissected one to determine an answer, which was “Looks like frog, isn’t frog, therefore it’s kosher. Come back when you have an interesting question, like are dragons kosher?” 

It took  _ hours _ , I almost missed curfew.

I hate you right now,

Harry

P.S. No, I won’t go back and ask if Dragons are kosher, I’ll introduce you when you get up here and you can ask her yourself. You are more immune to the terror of girls wielding very sharp knives with unholy glee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Also, I need to figure out if those chocolate frog things are kosher._  
>  "Is it Kosher?" is a favorite legal grey area thought game among most of the Jews I know.  
> Also, btw, space bacon IS kosher according to 3 out of the 4 people I've asked. That which comes from the heavens is auto-kosher, so space-pigs would be allowed, regardless of cloven hooves, refuse consumption, or other considerations.
> 
>  _“Looks like frog, isn’t frog, therefore it’s kosher. Come back when you have an interesting question, like are dragons kosher?”_  
>  She absolutely picked up the disected frog and bit it's head off, while waving the knife she used in the middle of this answer. Harry is appropriately terrified.


	8. Excuses, Excuses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lily has THINGS to say, Monologues couldn't be avoided, Harry wishes he was old enough for alcohol to be legal, Severus wishes murder was legal, but alcohol will do, for now...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17/18 year old Lily had one hell of a mouth on her, so don't be surprised by Language.  
> 33/4 year old Severus is not much better.  
> Takes place September 15th, 2004.
> 
> Lovefest: FantasyTLOU, hhhellcat, willowfire, Joey99, lightdefender, and 3 guest kudoers

Dearest Severus,

Yes, “dearest” even now. Don’t you start with me. I have had enough.

I know damned well why you never apologized, you big, broody bastard. And I am having fucking none of it. Fuck you and your shite. I forgive you anyway. Whether you want to ask for what you’ve no doubt decided you don’t deserve or not. Asshole. You don’t get to decide who I do or do not forgive. _And I forgive you._

Because I said so, that’s why.

Was I mad at you?  YES. 

For, like, two weeks.

And then I pulled my head out of my ass and paid attention to reality.

You called me a name. A racist slur of a name, sure. _Once._ In eight years. If you really believed it, you’d have said it quite a bit more often and we would never have been friends.

I know...well, figured out, how much shit the Slytherins gave you over your friendship with me. (Also, you should have fucking told me that shit.) _Everyone_ knows how much shit the fucking Gryffindors gave you because of your friendship with me. (Those idiots are going to be hearing about it for _years_ from me, even if they did stop, mostly. Eventually.)

And I just...couldn’t keep putting you through that. So, even though I forgave you before we even got on the train home Fifth year, I pretended I hadn’t. I was hoping to get you alone to explain. Where it wouldn’t muck up my plan. _That_ didn’t happen. 

Asshole. Quit _brooding_ already.

Remember when we were seven and we found the fox in the woods? She’d gotten caught in a trap, was hurt, couldn’t get out? She lashed out at anything that so much as _twitched_ in her vicinity, just in case it _might_ be a threat. We got so many bites and scratches getting her out mum took us to the hospital for stitches and rabies shots just in case. She came around afterwards, every so often, checking up on us like. Even let me pet her once, though she stayed skittish and wild.

Yes, you are a human and more intelligent than a fox, and thus ought to be held to higher standards of behavior, but _anyone_ can go a bit mad after five years in a trap they can’t get out of.

Don’t think I don’t know what Tobias was like, either. I refuse to call That Man your father. He was no such thing. I _am_ sorry I wasn’t there for you when he died. Conflicted emotions like that no doubt caused are hard on anyone, and you’ve never been all that good at dealing with emotions.

What I’m saying is, if I could forgive a non-magical fox for actions taken in pain and fear, how could I do less for my brother who endured as much for FAR longer?

Now get your head out of your ass and stop letting other people dictate what you do. You aren’t stupid, you know what’s what. Even if you aren’t particularly experienced in what “Right” is, you are _intimately_ familiar with Wrong.

If you need it spelled out specifically (I’m rolling my eyes at you right now):

If Tobias would do it, don’t.

If you wouldn’t want someone to do it to you, don’t. 

(Wait, I know you, I should rephrase that.)

If you wouldn’t want someone to do it to _me_ , don’t.

Treat others like you would treat me.

Unless they’re acting like Tobias.

Then give ‘em hell for me. At _least_ as much as I would. No, you don’t have to do it “like a Gryffindor.” The Slytherin way is often much better for such purposes. Be every bit the sneaky, conniving asshole I know you are, just aim it at the right people.

I miss you, Asshole.

Love, always,

Your sister

Lily

P.S. Never you mind how James will react to us being visibly friends again. If you don’t get to dictate what I do, neither does he. He can suck it up and deal with it like the adult he supposedly is or he can get his ass kicked from here to Tatooine.

  
  


***

Although Harry had seen a glimpse of someone else that day in the empty classroom, _Professor Snape_ opened the next Potions class with “Detention, _Mr. Evans,_ in my office, promptly after dinner _._ ” Hermione, of course, was outraged on his behalf, once she got over the confusion of no-one-in-class-has-that-name, as class hadn’t gone on long enough for him to have done anything to get a detention.

“What for?” she demanded.

_How_ did the professor manage to make a smirk look like a sneer? (Or was it the other way round?) Harry really needed to learn how to do that. Of course, his answer almost made Harry give the game away by rolling his eyes and facepalming. The twitch, though, he couldn’t quite suppress.

“For boot prints on walls, Ms. Granger.”

“ _Boot prints?_ How do you know they’re his?” Hermione challenged. Of course she did, being outraged by and challenging everything she deemed wrong in the world is just what Hermione does.

The smirk-sneer grew. “The prints are the exact same size as his. And I happen to have seen him with his feet on that very wall just the other day.”

All entirely true, while giving entirely the wrong impression, maybe Harry needed to learn how to do THAT instead of the obscure branch of magic his teacher worked with facial expressions.

He didn’t need the note the professor dropped on his table, not with _that_ reason given, but he appreciated that he’d thought to write it in advance. It was even vague enough no one but him would guess at the meaning.

“ **_Detention is just an excuse._ **”

***

Harry knocked on the door and entered, somewhat nervous about this not-detention.  
“I’m here for my detention, Sir.”

“Come in, Mr. Evans, and close the door.”

Harry followed instructions, then placed his bag on a chair. “Sir?”

Snape’s eyebrow rose, “The door is closed, _Wit_ , and with the extensive wards I have placed on this room and my quarters, eavesdroppers are unlikely. Formality is unnecessary.”

Wit sighed, relaxing as he let _Harry_ slip from his shoulders, “I still don’t know what to call you outside of classes, though.”

The professor tilted his head in a sideways nod of acknowledgement, “True, and most of the things your mother called me would be...inappropriate. There _will_ be issues if you name me Asshole, for example. That was Lily’s prerogative. I was _her_ ‘sneaky, conniving Asshole,’ no one else’s. And I am aware that I have yet to earn anything kinder from you.”

“Greasy git is right out, then?” Wit teased, somewhat surprised at himself.

“Your father and godfather’s preferred name for me,” he snorted. Then he sighed, looking at his fireplace, “I suppose Lily got her vengeance for me eventually. She pulled quite possibly the biggest prank ever on them, and they never even knew.”

“Prank?”

“Your name.”

“...I’m going to need more explanation for that.”

Snape smirked, “Your mother was particularly fond of obscure history puns. What do you know of Henry FitzRoy, Duke of Richmond?”

“Um, he was the son of Henry the Eighth?”

Snape nodded, “Henry FitzRoy, commonly called Harry, was brother to Mary Tudor. At the time it was only the two of them, each entirely unsuitable for the throne for different reasons by the standards the nobility set. And to stall the nobles from a seemingly inevitable civil war, Henry VIII gave _both_ his legitimate-but- _female_ child, and his _illegitimate_ -but-male child titles that traditionally marked them as heirs to the throne. Harry was the bastard Prince of England. My mother’s maiden name was Prince. In an exceedingly roundabout, exceptionally Lily way, your mother named you after me, the _bastard Prince.”_

“I...can’t even. Nope, putting that aside for now, to be revisited at a later date, preferably when I’m old enough to have alcohol. You asked to see me?”

Snape, Harry snrked quietly to himself, _FitzRoy_ nodded and allowed the subject change. Motioning for Wit to sit in the rather comfortable leather chair across the fireplace from his own, he settled back and took a sip from his tea. “For several reasons, actually, most related, in one way or another, to _boot prints_ . First, you have been denied knowledge that is your right. And I, personally, _owe_ you some of it. I have several things either done by your mother, given to me by her, or belonging to her, and thus to you, left in my possession. _Her_ record player and our vinyls will remain in that room for your use, and any other like-minded individuals, should you have such, provided that you remember they are at least half your mother’s. You may take all of them, as your own affects, from that room only when you graduate, though if you wish to gift them to further generations of like-minded individuals… It is your choice. I would value either option, and I think Lily would as well. Other than that, I wish to make available to you...other things.” 

He motioned to the table at his side, where several journals, papers, and storage containers were stacked. “I may not be willing to part with them, but you may view them whenever you wish, and some of them I can make copies of easily enough. I do ask that you keep the contents of the journals private. Some are our potions work, your mother and I invented a great many potions and spells together, some have never seen the light of day. Our little secrets. Neither Voldemort nor Dumbledore are aware they exist...and it should stay that way. The artwork, drawings, doodles, and such… ask, I may be willing to give you some of the originals, as I have more of them than I can hang where they’d be properly appreciated. This is your detention tonight, and every night this week. ‘For attitude’, I think.

“Secondly, I have a device that allows for the viewing of memories. In third person, of course, no one _really needs_ to experience another’s memories in first person. I would like to offer you the opportunity to view any of my memories of your parents you wish, provided I don’t feel viewing them would harm you, or put others at risk due to secrets being revealed. Any time you wish, simply let me know in advance, so I can arrange a detention for your cover.

“Finally… As a Potions Master, I also have licenses as a medical professional. It’s required in order to brew anything for the use of others, lest you accidentally poison them. Would you permit me to run a medical scan and call appropriate, _trusted_ healers to deal with anything I find therein?”

***

While FitzRoy cast his “recordarentur medicinae historia”, Wit read through the letter that had been found in the record case, pointedly ignoring the fresh tear stains on the page. It was...enlightening. In regards to both his mother and the one she wrote to. He wondered how FitzRoy was going to react when he found out what Petunia and Vernon were like when no one was looking, given what his mum hinted at “Tobias” being like. By the time FitzRoy had started muttering swear words under his breath, Wit was using a charm Hermione had insisted all the Gryffindors their year learn to copy her notes to study from rather than just “ _outright stealing them the week before exams when she had studying to do, dammit_ ” to copy the letter to a spare bit of parchment. He slipped the copy into his bag just before FitzRoy let loose.

“SARD IT ALL TO HELL!”

“Uhm… FitzRoy?”

“You found a name for me. I thought you were avoiding dealing with _that_?”

“I can avoid dealing with things and use them to my advantage at the same time, Fitz. You were just swearing creatively?”

“Fitz” sighed gustily, “First, I’m going to creatively _not_ -kill Petunia and her walrus. Aside from that, I do need to call you a healer. Andromeda Tonks, I think. She’s related to you by blood, being a Black disowned for marrying a muggle, and I am _entirely certain_ she’s not in either Dark or Light Lords’ pockets, both sides spent too much time whining about her, one side because she married a muggle, the other because she wouldn’t toe their lines and went merrily wherever she felt like. Also, I’m going to need to re-grade everything you have ever done in my class. _THIS_ is why Poppy Pomfrey is supposed to do a scan on all incoming students, so we know what might affect their work and what is being done about it. She suddenly stopped doing them the year the incoming students included you.”

Wit paled. “It’s not just me? _Nobody_ is getting what they’re supposed to?”

“I haven’t received the results of a single scan in five years and one week,” FitzRoy nodded grimly. “Forget the ‘attitude’, you are officially ordered to slack off in my class for the next two weeks at least while we get your hands and eyes sorted. I don’t want to see so much as a flicker of work from you. Come to think of it, drag Longbottom into slacking, too, would you? I’m starting to suspect there are things that’d show up on _his_ scans making me re-grade everything. I’ll give you both detention for it, you’ll spend it with your mother’s things, listening to music, or doing your other homework, in here, while Mme. Tonks and I work to get you physically up to par. Then you’ll have ‘Remedial Potions’ to fix what you miss-learned on account of injury, then brewing a selection of potions from each year for me to correct your grades for those years. Essays I can just pull from my records and re-assess… Would you mind terribly if I just kill them? Painfully? Slowly _and_ painfully? It’d make me feel better about everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> "Sard": medieval curse word with the same meaning and use as "fuck". Severus is so pissed here that he's mixing his swear-phrases up.  
> “recordarentur medicinae historia”: Latin, (verb)(To)Record medical history
> 
>  _"I suppose Lily got her vengeance for me eventually..."_  
>  I totally didn't plan any of this section happening at all, never thought about it, it never ocurred to me, but Sevvy nudged and Lily cackled and Sirius whined... Also, all facts of history mentioned in this section are entirely true... 
> 
> _Neither Voldemort nor Dumbledore are aware they exist...and it should stay that way._  
>  For example, a potion that implants a false memory, the potion is the base, a Lily-designed charm determines the memory it implants, and it's counter. (which Severus used extensively when being a spy)  
> Also, other privacy and concealment spells than Muffliato that stay secret so no one can counter them, notes on accidental creations with potential Evil applications so they remember what NOT to do....


	9. A Game of Catch-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plotting, Planning, and Actually Fixing. Sevvy would Really Like to Kill people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up where 8 left off, just after "Detention".  
> Mentions of abuse and just a few of the long-lasting consequences thereof. Casual mentions of justifiable homicide.
> 
> Hermione may seem a bit OOC to some. She IS trying to be a good friend.
> 
> Harry and Sevvy keep stabbing the authors(and readers) in the feels. I'm so sorry about them, really.
> 
> In other news: Rating may change, and trigger warnings may apply to future chapters. Honestly, these boys are all so _thoroughly_ fucked up, and keep slapping us with things. I have no idea what will make it into final edits and what will only be headcanons that don't directly affect the plot, so be aware.
> 
> LoveFest!: ghosty_boi, Potato_united, and 10 guest kudoers. Bonus points to FantasyTLOU, hhhellcat, ClockWeasel, Joey99, and jasper1999x

It was late when Harry returned to the Tower, several copies of his mum’s earlier journals, notes, and a few sketches in his hands, and a great many new ideas in his head. He wasn’t sure how it was possible to feel heavy and light at the same time. He wasn’t surprised to find Ron and Hermione waiting for him in the common room. He _was_ surprised Neville was there, too, a worried expression on his face as all three looked up at the portrait opening.

Hermione opened her mouth, likely with a slew of questions, and Harry raised a hand to stall her as he sat heavily in an available chair. Waving his wand with a muttered "Muffliato", he cast the spell FitzRoy had just taught him to keep secrets secret. Turning back to his friends, Hermione looked like she had even _more_ questions, and was holding them in with a force of will that looked like it hurt.

“Just ensuring our privacy. _Breathe,_ Hermione. Before you ask, the detention was fake,” he said quickly, before she’d got her breath back enough to ask her questions. “I wasn’t all that worried about going because I knew it was fake, as his excuse for giving me the detention was a code. Also, he gave me a note saying so. ...If I try and tell you without interruption, I’m going to forget things, because it’s _a lot,_ and Hermione will explode from questions... _One_ question at a time, Mione.”

“ _Code?”_ she asked in a burst, struggling to keep the thousands of questions in check.

Harry nodded, expecting that one first, “Everything he said was entirely true, except the boot prints were _my Mum’s_ and he knew it, because I just happened to pick a room to listen to music in that was the _same_ room he and mum used to listen to music that the Slytherins would have hated on principle, and the Gryffindors would have disapproved of the theme of. Bands like Sisters of Mercy, Siouxie Sioux and the Banshees, The Cult…”

Hermione got it quick, though Ron and Neville still looked a bit lost. 

“Muggle goth bands from the eighties,” she explained, briefly, “but then _why?_ Why has he been...”

“A git this whole time? When it comes to Gryffindors as a whole, because WizardNazis are still running about and it’d be a bad idea to let them know he’d been Dumbledore’s spy among them by _not_ being a jerk to Gryffindors.… When it comes to the _extra-_ git just for me... because Holy Baggage, Batman. Which I think he’s working on fixing and making amends for where he can, namely, where no one else will see. It’s the only explanation I can come up with for the current weirdness. Plus, I’m not sure he quite knows how to Human.”

At Hermione’s raised-eyebrow of a question, he shrugged and dug into his book bag, “Dad was a jerk worse than Malfoy just because Professor Snape was friends with mum, right up until he and mum had a falling out in their fifth year. Think West Side Story. We found this taped to a record that came out the year they all graduated, left where he and mum stored their records,” he explained, handing the copied letter to Hermione.

She read it in silence and passed it to Neville. She looked up at Harry, her brain clearly working harder than it usually did, which in ‘Mione was saying something. “Least important question, to get it out of the way, or skip it to the important stuff and ask later?”

“The spell?” Harry asked.

Hermione nodded. 

“Professor Snape taught me. He and mum, mostly mum, he says, made it their third year. Apparently, Flitwick loves it, so he teaches it to the sixth years, because they don’t want students using it to have conversations in class. Makes it so no one can hear what is being said inside a space from outside it by filling their ears with static.”

She nodded while they waited for Neville to read the letter, his face completely baffled. Hermione sighed heavily, “I _want_ to ask dozens more questions about your detention and the whole ‘boot prints’ thing, I _want_ to know everything, but I know I don’t _need_ to, the general gist of things I’ve got from what you’ve said and the letter are enough to work from, and ... I think those questions might qualify as prying? I don’t know, there’s not much about me that I won’t tell if asked, but I know how secrets work, and I don’t like telling things about other people, but that means I’m also less sure what ‘prying’ actually means.”

“Why don’t you write them down, and I’ll see if I can answer them tomorrow? My brain is kinda fried right now and there’s other stuff we need to talk about before I can pass out. Circles are squares and North is actually West. 2+2=3,487.”

Neville put the letter down and looked at them, looking rather like the human version of one of Bowie’s Blue-Screen-Of-Deaths. “S-so, w-what a-are?”

“What’s the plan?” Hermione clarified for him. Neville nodded.

“That’s what I needed to talk with you three about,” Harry sighed. “Seems Madam Pomfrey is _supposed_ to do health scans on all incoming first years, so the professors know when there’s a medical problem that needs to be worked around…”

“But none of us got scanned!” Hermione interrupted.  
  
“No,” Harry verified, “None of _us_ , nor any students after us. Professor Snape hasn’t received any scan results at all since a week after the fifth years got here.”

“My brothers never said anything about a health scan,” Ron said with a thoroughly confused look.

“Why would they? It’s a normal part of entry to Hogwarts to them, and only worth mentioning if something showed up on the scans.”

“And since we didn’t say anything about it, they assumed we just had ‘normal’ scans, not that we didn’t get scanned,” Hermione sighed.

Harry nodded, “Professor Snape did one on me, which is why the fake-tention took so long. My hands and eyes don’t work quite right. I didn’t know, because it’s normal for me, so I thought everyone had the same problem, and were just better at working around it… Snape thinks Neville might have something show up on his scans too if anyone did one. So he and I are hereby ordered to slack off in Potions class. Snape will give us detentions where Neville will get scanned and any medical stuff can be seen to.”  
  
Ron had his chess-face on. “What do you need us to do, then?” he asked, pointing at Hermione.

“Hermione needs to yell at us in public after class, but not in private and avoid being mean about it, because we’re slacking off on orders for health reasons, not because we’re being lazy. But it needs to _look_ like we’re being lazy so Snape has the excuse he needs to get us where he and a healer that can be trusted can do something about it.”

Ron nodded, “And me?”

“Distraction detail. Get the twins to tell you how to cause mayhem in potions class without risking somebody getting hurt by it. I’ll tell Snape so any detentions he gives you will be as fake as ours. The Slytherins in particular need to not guess what’s going on, so they need something _else_ to think about.”

Hermione nodded, “We’ll swap partners around, Harry with Neville to make slacking mutually easier, and look more obviously like laziness, Ron with me so I can help tell him when something he might do as a prank would cause an explosion or melting cauldron or the like.” She took a deep breath to wind herself up for something, “But I have a favor to ask, Harry.”

Harry frowned, Hermione didn’t generally have to steel herself before asking for things. “What sort of favor?”

She swallowed and glanced at Ron, “I think I know why Ron has trouble with books. Muggles know about it and have ways of working around it, but can’t cure it. I need you to ask the healer Professor Snape is bringing you to if they have anything they can do for Dyslexia, or if I should get the muggle books on it, testing for it and the things they do to work around it when I’m home over Christmas break.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully, “I could, but I think it’d be better if you could arrange to join us in detention so you can explain it yourself. I’m not so good with the details of exactly how Dyslexia works and how it happens. I only know the general bits.” 

He set to work figuring out how to code a note to the professor to get Hermione and Ron in detention with him and Neville. Maybe Mab could get the books for Hermione sooner than Christmas. Sleep could come later. 

***

“Minerva.”

“Severus? What…?”

“I’ve just come from detention with Mr. Potter. Tell me, have you received any scan results from Poppy in the last four years?”

“No, I assumed that meant there was nothing to report on. Why?”

“The scans never happened. I’m going to be handing out detentions in the coming weeks to quietly get Harry treated and a few other students I think need the scans and adjustments to how we teach them, if not treatment. I need you to leave those detentions alone, but compensate for any points-loss somewhere.”

“...I’ll get you a list of students to give these detentions to after the first batch is dealt with, and pass the word to Pomona and Filius. Let me know what’s needed and I’ll distribute the information accordingly.”

***

The next Potions class was...interesting, to say the least. While Harry and Neville kicked back, playing a game of Dots and Boxes, Hermione and Ron somehow managed to turn their potion into a fog machine, producing mass quantities of smoke-like vapor that was harmless to breathe but impossible to see through. 

It was possibly the only time in all of existence he wasn’t _completely_ floored to see Hermione looking _smug_ about having gotten herself a detention for the first time since the Dragon Escapades in first year.

“That is IT,” Professor Snape snapped as he managed to get a wind charm properly venting the fog. “Detentions for all four of you. Maybe helping me scrub out cauldrons for an afternoon will teach Evans and Longbottom the value of _hard work_ , and Granger and Weasley the _consequences_ of rash experimentation.”

***

At ‘Detention’, Snape gave Hermione a small, approving nod. “That was a well worked fog potion, considering you only had the available ingredients for a mild sleep draught.”

“Ron helped. I wouldn’t have known where to get glycerine,” Hermione said, as always wanting to ensure everyone who helped got credit.

“My compliments on successfully getting something into my classroom, Mr. Weasley. Even your brothers rarely succeed at that. I won’t be so lax next time. As for Ms. Granger, you may read from my collection while the others are examined, as I imagine yours will go much faster. Speaking of, Andy… _do_ get out of that closet.”

“You ruin all my fun, Raincloud,” said a new voice. The witch who emerged from the closet, pouting, was a merry sort, dark hair pulled into a low bun as befitted a doctor, but decorated with hairsticks shaped like toadstools of a cheery poisonous red. “Andromeda Tonks, at your service. I’m a healer, a potions maker, and a professional busybody. I’ll be running the health scans.”

“Oh good,” Harry said, relief pouring over him like rain. Someone actually did something about the problem… someone who wasn’t him.

The detention passed quickly, Andromeda examined them, one by one, while the others waited and listened to Lily Evans' music, or read advanced potions tretices, in Hermione’s case.

***

“Alright, Hermione,” Andy began, sitting at a table in Professor Snape’s quarters with the Heads of House. “You told us you think Ronald has something Muggles call Dyslexia. Nothing showed up on his scan, but not all things do, if Magic thinks it’s a normal part of the person the scan is cast on. Can you tell us what Dyslexia is? We might have an equivalent diagnosis, but I don’t recognize that word.”

Hermione took a deep breath and pulled out several books from her bookbag before beginning, sounding like she was reciting from something she read. “Dyslexia is an in-born, possibly genetic, problem in the language centers of the brain. It makes learning to read very difficult, sometimes impossible, without specialized education methods to circumvent the problem. Mostly, it affects the brain’s ability to recognize the symbols letters or numbers are and connect them to the sound or quantity they stand for. Some people with Dyslexia say the letters flip around or shift positions when they try to read, others just can’t make ink-on-paper _mean_ sounds-and-words, and the longer and more complicated the words, sentences, and paragraphs are, the harder they have to fight to make it make sense. Muggle schools have what’s called an Individual Education Plan, or Individual Learning Plan, for students with disabilities to provide strategies for working over or around a problem to learn what they need to. For Dyslexia, this often includes tools like books-on-tape, which is a recording of someone reading the book that can be played as often as needed, while also following along in the book itself with fingers and eyes, and things _like_ dictaquills to help them get their thoughts down, as well as extra tutoring in reading and writing, and leniency in grading where reading and writing are involved, sometimes alternate testing methods, like testing privately so they can hear the questions and answer verbally. Dyslexia and other in-born brain differences, like Autism and ADHD, cannot be cured, at least not by muggle means, only treated or worked around.”

Andy gave Hermione a look, “I’m going to ask you about those others you mentioned, later.” She shook her head, “I don’t think we have a specific diagnosis for the exact problem Muggles call Dyslexia, there’s a certain...carelessness of others in the wizarding world that affects even the Healers sometimes. That sort of difficulty is often treated like a less-severe version of being a Squib. I will look into what can be done about such problems, see if we can’t at least _mitigate_ some of the difficulties.”

“In the meantime,” Professor McGonnagall continued, “Everything you listed is something we _can_ do to help _now._ ”

“And what of the other boys?” Filius inquired as Pomona let Hermione out to join said boys.

Andy and Severus shared positively _black_ looks.

“Harry and Neville’s difficulties stem from _abuse_ not genetics, and as such DO show up on their scans and we can do something about fixing them,” Severus began.

“Harry’s right wrist was broken at least twice before coming to Hogwarts, and he never saw a muggle Healer for it, instead, his magic just _made it work_ around the damage, which causes both pain and drains on his magic and his focus. Fixing it will mean rebreaking it in the exact places it was broken before, and using outside, directed magic to set it properly and heal it rather than just tossing a Skele-Gro in him to keep his magic from just putting it back the way it was before because that’s what it’s _used to_ , as happened when Lockhart vanished the bones in that arm two years ago,” Andy sighed.

“On top of that, he isn’t right handed, he’s _left._ Apparently Petunia hates magic so much that even having a less-common dominant hand was brutally punished. He’ll have to relearn everything from writing to wand motions. Maybe even needing a new wand. His eyesight is poor due to several factors from malnutrition, to injuries to his face and head, to chemical exposure, to poor lighting. Seems as though his bedroom until his Hogwarts letter came with a very _specific_ address was the same cupboard under the stairs that the cleaning solvents were stored in, and their favorite punishment was to lock him into it without food or light for days at a time.”

By this point, all three of the other House Heads were visibly livid. Filius had a twitch going that looked like a samba in the corner of his eye, Pomona was alternating between a strong urge to go hug the stuffing out of the boy and planting Devil’s Snare in that house, Minerva was muttering some… particularly creative curses and hexes under her breath, keeping her hands far away from her wand.

Andy nodded, keeping a calming hand on Severus’ elbow, “All of which will take a bit of time to heal and re-train with extra tutors outside of classes. _Neville,_ though, has an entirely different set of problems.”

If it was possible, Severus’ expression grew even more incensed, and he began muttering foul language from most of the planet and several different periods of time under his breath.

“The fact that Augusta Longbottom has seen fit to demand he use only his father’s wand, rather than having one properly suited to him is easily fixed. The fact that Algernon still thinks it’s appropriate to test for magic by putting small children in potentially _lethal_ situations and expecting their magic to get them out of it, despite being yelled at for it several times, is less so. The reported throwing of an eight year old out a third storey window didn’t do much damage that wasn’t addressed. The near-drowning of a four year old, _did_.”

Severus sighed and chimed in, “Rather than trying to get him out of the water, his magic worked to keep him alive and minimize damage to his brain due to lack of oxygen. But some damage happened anyways. This would be why he has little short-term memory, poor motor skills and balance, and difficulty communicating clearly. It’s not as ...debilitating as such damage usually is because his magic both prevented the worst of the damage and has been _slowly_ working to heal it.”

“We can speed the healing up, some, but it will still take months, maybe years, and not everything will be _fixed_ , just _better._ He would benefit from an _Educational Plan_ like Ronald, possibly together as their needs might help each other. I’ve already written my sister and Amelia Bones to deal with the families. _THEY_ have the political backing to get away with giving Dowager Longbottom a tongue lashing at minimum. _NO,_ Raincloud, we are not allowed to just murder them all. As nice as it sounds.”

***

A very quiet revolution happened over the next few weeks. Detentions were issued, diagnoses made, grades adjusted, and tutoring assigned. Harry spent a week in an arm brace, seeing Madame Pomfrey every evening to break and reset each of the poorly healed bones of his arm. Ron was given a dicatquill stipend to get ones at Hogsmeade that worked for him. Neville was taken into Diagon Alley by Professor McGonnagall to get a proper wand of his own on a weekend. Colin Creevy got diagnosed with an attention disorder and Professors Sprout and Snape made the potions to help him focus under Madame Pomfrey’s direction, all three of them muttering angrily about how they could have caught this two years ago. Many of the professors had started sitting farther from Dumbledore at dinner, but Poppy and Pomona were outright snubbing the Headmaster.

As they neared the end of October, Harry found himself almost relaxing. For once, it seemed the adults around him had the issue in hand, he already knew he was too young to get sucked into the Triwizard Tournament chaos, and his new hobby of sewing pouches for House Elves was becoming popular, leading to many evenings spent playing music and sewing with others in the Great Hall after dinner. It was nice, and he enjoyed it, even as he prepared for it to fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fog machine: Actually... A fog machine is just vape juice (glycerin &/or glycol and water) a heat source and a method of moving air. she has a cauldron over a fire, water, a few potions ingredients, some of which are harmless on their own but smell/taste good/foul depending on what she wants to "treat" the class to. All she needs is a way to circulate air and glycerin...which is a byproduct of making soap. Heating fats of any sort and adding a small amount of lye produces soap and glycerin. With the surplus fats from the kitchen, and the shear number of people to provide soaps AND food to, there's a high probability that the House Elves make the school's soap supply themselves, so there's a chance the elves have glycerin left over from their last soap making... And telling Ron that the thing that makes fog when exposed to high heat is a byproduct of soap making would send him straight to ask the elves, producing it for her. They gave him gallons of the stuff, but he only brought a quart of it to class.
> 
> (other methods of Non-magical fog-making include placing Dry Ice in warm water, but dry ice would be harder for her to get a hold of and transport safely than glycerin, and, honestly, i have no idea what would happen if you put dry ice in heated fog juice...)
> 
> _Andy… do get out of that closet._  
>  It's totally the closet he keeps spare robes in in case of particularly problematic potions spills. She's being prurient. Smugly prurient.
> 
> Dyslexia Information (Ron):  
> https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/dyslexia/symptoms-causes/syc-20353552  
> and  
> https://www.everydayhealth.com/dyslexia/types/
> 
> Anoxic/Hypoxic Brain Injury (Neville):  
> https://www.shepherd.org/patient-programs/brain-injury/about/types-of-brain-injury/anoxic-hypoxic-brain-injury  
> " The effects of an anoxic brain injury may include:  
> headache, difficulty coordinating balance, blurred vision in one or both eyes, milder vision problems, seizures, changes in sensory perception, trouble speaking and swallowing, changes in sleep pattern, lack of bowel and bladder control, changes in sexual function, motor impairment, personality changes, difficulty forming sentences, confusion, trouble communicating, difficulty with reason, focus and logic, memory impairments, depression, poor concentration, mood swings, limited attention span, disorientation, forgetfulness, acting inappropriately"
> 
> Now, a lot of those could _also_ be due simply to environment issues, like a mentally/emotionally abusive home like Neville has, but with the sheer number of them Neville shows at least some of IN CANON... Nope, I couldn't NOT say he has it.


	10. Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On October 27th, many people arrive at Hogwarts, some expected, others not so much. Harry does what he thinks is right regardless of whether others will approve or not. Short and Terrifying Hufflepuffs are a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love Fest: MARIROO_THE_READER, ShaShirRa, Edelweiss_Elessedil, Hexlorde, MsSpaceey, Meep575, GlodenLily89, Immortal_Dreams, 6 guest kudoers. Bonus Points: Fantasy_TLOU, hhhellcat, jasper1999x, Joey99, ClockWeasel, willowfire, MsSpaceey

The first to arrive were the Beauxbatons students. The massive flying horses were magnificent and Harry’s first thought was if any might be amenable to preening services in exchange for loose feathers, they’d make a wonderful gift for Hela. His second thought was calculating how much of his outerwear he could slip to them, as they were drastically underdressed for Northern Scottisth weather. His opinion of the Giantess headmistress dropped steadily, the longer her students stood shivering while she issued orders about the care of the horses. Sure, treat your animals well, but let the freezing kids go inside!

Without thinking he began humming that Cruxshadows song. When the people downtown are freezing, indeed. Hermione gave him a nod, as did Ron. They knew the lyrics to that song too.

“Hey, Colin, can you and Dennis clear a path for us?”

“Sure thing, Harry! Won’t you get in trouble, though?”

“Probably. Worth it,” Harry said, and shucked off his jumper, this one a thick black wool with Gryffindor red cables. He got to the nearest Beauxbaton student, a slender boy with shaggy white hair and a twitchy look that hit too close to home. “Tu as l'air froid, s'il te plait prends mon pull.”

The boy looked oddly at him, and took the jumper with one gentle hand.

“Je m'appelle Harry, quel est le vôtre?” Harry asked. The boy pulled on the sweater with a cautious glance at his headmistress.

“I em called ‘Ugo, I do speak a leetle English. It is a required class at Beauxbaton.”

“I wish we had language classes,” Harry said wistfully. “Do any of your classmates get cold hands? I have gloves too.”

Hugo pointed out a standoffish girl at the edge of the crowd.

Harry moved on. “Gloves? Um, I’ve forgotten the word. I only started learning French a few weeks ago, sorry.”

The girl looked speculatively at the leather and mesh mashup that had once been a pair of driving gloves with holes in the fingertips and a pair of arm warmers nobody could keep rolled up. Now, they made very serviceable lightweight fingerless gloves. Fingerless was a bit of a misnomer, only the last knuckle was exposed.

“Merci, I am Fleur Delacour. And oo might you be, my knight in shining armour?”

“Harry, but most of my friends call me Wit.”

“I shall have to find a good way to thank you… Wit.”

“No need, it’s just what my people do. If you need to make it balance for your own sake, just give when you can to someone in need. Hmm, I am out of outerwear unless I give someone my cloak but that’s a school uniform and might get confusing.”

“I got it, Harry!” Fred called. “Accio Jumper Box!”

Harry looked to the voice and saw Neville, Ginny, the Twins, and a girl he’d seen in passing but not met yet, all passing out bits of their outfits as well. A bang signalled the arrival of the large box the Weasleys and Harry stashed the Christmas Jumpers which were simply too offensive to the eyes to wear more than once.

“Our apologies for the aesthetics,” Harry said, feeling his Wit self slide to the front. “They’re made with love? And they’re super warm. It gets cold here, someone ought to have warned you to pack for the weather.”

“MISTER POTTER,” Said Professor McGonagall, spotting him out of the line. Then, she seemed to catch up to what he and his friends were doing. Her face twitched, and she shot a small, hard look at the Beauxbaton Headmistress. “Good job, carry on. Ten points to Gryffindor, and five to Ravenclaw, Miss Lovegood.”

She might have been about to say something else, when a great sucking sound echoed across the lake, followed by a large wave, from which emerged a great, four masted ship. The gangway was lowered, and two sturdy-looking rows of students in heavy fur coats emerged. They fell into a military-style lock step as they disembarked.

“Is that Viktor Krum?” Ron asked, leaning into Harry to better point out where he was looking without pointing. “Blimey, I didn’t realize he was still in school!”

“Ron… we’re friends because you didn’t freak out on me that first day,” Harry said warningly. “Do not freak out on Krum. No matter how cool he is. Or how amazing that grab was at the World Cup. Or how much I want to ask him for pointers.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at them. “He’s just a Quidditch player. Get over yourselves or you’ll make us look bad. At least we don’t have to worry about them being cold.”

“No, but breaking that ice might take a drill, and dynomite,” Harry said, looking at the other faces in the crowd. They were all stoically staring straight ahead. “I’m thinking a dance party, tonight. Ideas?”

“Raised by Bats,” Ron said immediately. “Invite everyone. Fred, George, you know who’s fun, invite them to hang out with us in the Great Hall after dinner tonight. Uh, Ravenclaw Girl…”

“My name’s Luna, Luna Lovegood? Sometimes people call me Looney Lovegood.”

“Do you like that name?” Harry asked.

“I don’t hate it,” Luna said. “I think I’m meant to, though.”

“Right,” Ron said with a deep breath. Harry could see the Blood of Molly rising in his friend again. “Luna, you wanna come dance with us after dinner?”

“I’d like that,” she said dreamily.

“Good, so after dinner we’ll dance and see if that doesn’t get at least some of them interested in talking… or smiling… or any emoting, anything is good,” Harry said, looking at the impenetrable wall of blank faces. It had been so much less intimidating to talk to the Beauxbatons students, who looked miserable, but vaguely friendly.

“I will ‘elp,” Fleur declared. “This is supposed to be a time for our schools to talk, to become friends. ‘Ow are we to do that, if we do not try things the others enjoy? I will get a few of the Durmstrang students to come to your dance party.”

“Yeah,” sighed Ron. Harry gave his friend an alarmed look, and Fleur blushed.

“Pardon, it ees very cold, I did not mean to do that,” she said and hastily merged back with the milling crowd of be-sweatered Beauxbatons students.

Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat loudly and everyone turned to give him attention for the welcoming speech. He had just gotten into a small joke when a loud rumbling roar had everyone except the muggleborns and Harry ducking. The muggleborns looked curiously at the lane coming up from Hogsmeade, and Harry burst out grinning.

The van that was driving up was a large, cumbersome beast of a vehicle, painted a deep blue that looked almost black. Cats-eye pupils had been added to the front lights, and as it grew closer, it was clear the deep blue was mottled with black and gray stormclouds and flecked with glowing white lightning. The side panel held a painting of a tree, branches and roots forming a circle through which a great serpent was entwined. In the trunk of the tree was a spiked, forked, snowflake-like shape that resonated with the magic of the school grounds. Around that were runes… and several teachers and older students who took runes gasped.

The van lurched to a halt in front of the school and the door opened to disgorge a pile of strangely dressed people.

A tall, attractive man covered in tattoos and piercings helped an elegant woman in a formal walking dress step down. The woman had to duck to allow her piles of icy white curls to pass the doorframe, and the late afternoon sun caught on the snowy owl feathers artfully pinning the hairdo together.

The second woman also had feathers in her hair, although artful would be the last thing you’d call the mass of braids and inky-black corvid feathers.

“Mab!” Harry shouted, drawing looks from his classmates, his teachers, and the visiting schools. “Troll, Hela, what’s going on?”

“We told you we were coming up,” said Mab. “Bowie, can you keep her running? I don’t think this is parking.”

“I can try,” called a voice from inside as more people disembarked, sounding amused. It had an effect similar to the Beauxbaton’s carriage, more people exiting than ought to fit inside.

“I have found my people,” sighed the slender fellow in dapper Victorian clothing as he eyed the clothes of the Professors, most of which seemed even more old-fashioned with Mab’s aggressively comfortable corset-over-fishnet and baggy pants, and Troll’s top hat and… pants.

“You forgot a shirt again,” Harry noted. Troll touched his chest and sniffed.

“Meh,” he said. “Not that cold. Dru isn’t wearing shoes; I don’t need a shirt. Kothaar, leave the instruments, you know nothing is getting through those wards and we don’t know where we’re staying yet.”

The two vikings made sad noises, and then proceeded to grab Harry and hug him in a four armed cuddle that looked vaguely like what the Giant Squid in the lake might look like, were it as cuddly as Hagrid always claimed.

“You are OURS now,” Vvornth said firmly. “You are not going back to that… that horrible….”

“That  _ nithing _ of a woman can’t have you,” Kothaar said in a tone that brooked no opposition.

“Now what is the meaning of all this?” Dumbledore harrumphed, and honestly, harrumphing did not suit him. Gandalf, he wasn’t. “I must say, I don’t know what all of you are doing here, or who you are, and I do not care for not knowing what goes on at my school.”

Mab whirled on him, placing her short but terrifying frame solidly between the Headmaster and Harry.

“ _ You, _ Albus. Wulfric. Percival. Brian. Dumbledore,” she hissed dangerously, as Sheila-The-Python coiled herself around Mab’s shoulders to join in glaring at the accused, “have got some  _ explaining _ to do.” 

“Mab, you don’t need to do this…” Harry began and she gave him a Look over her shoulder.

“Someone has to and I nominate me, because nobody at this school seems to stand up for the student body unless an irate parent shows up.” She drew herself up and seemed so much larger than even her tallest shoes could have managed, despite these not being her tall boots, but rather her steel-toed shit-kickers.

“HOW  **_DARE_ ** YOU EXPOSE  **UNDERAGE STUDENTS** to  _ DEMENTORS _ ?” she bellowed, causing several people to cast quick dampening charms on their ears. “WHAT in the HELL were you THINKING allowing this school to remain both haunted by  _ WIZARD FUCKING HITLER’S GODDAMN GHOST _ … and a FUCKING **_BASILISK_ ** ?” 

“Is thees true?” trilled Madame Maxime.

“You kept a  **_CERBERUS..._ ** in a  _ classroom _ … where he couldn’t run or play or get  **any enrichment** … where he was almost  _ guaranteed _ to be the worst version of himself... and you put this large, mistreated,  _ dangerously _ uncared for creature… behind a lock  **AN ELEVEN YEAR OLD COULD PICK** ! Answer me any of my questions, but for all the Gods’ Witness, tell me this… by the Great Lady’s tenderest mercies, what the ever-loving **_fuck_ ** is wrong with you?”

“ _ Ma _ , stop it!” Harry shouted, and something rippled. The world seemed to sigh with relief and there was the definite idea of a satisfied nod hanging in the air as all the wizards and witches present fell silent. Dru giggled beside Luna, and pushed the girl’s funny glasses down. Luna sighed in a relaxed, happy, oh-that’s-better way, and nodded.

“It would seem, congratulations are in order, young lady,” said Professor McGonnagall, recovering her cool the fastest. “Surprise, it’s a boy. And a ...Gryffindor.”

“Say what now?” Mab asked, not looking any less fearsome.

“It would appear you and Young Evans have mutually adopted each other,” Snape said coolly. “And it would appear Magic itself agrees with the arrangement. You are his mother, for all magical intents.”

“That’s great, never needed Magic’s approval to adopt before, don’t really need it now,” Mab said. “Someone explain why my SON had a Gods-Be-Blighted- _ and-Damned _ UNFORGIVABLE CURSE CAST ON HIM AT SCHOOL!”

“He had a WHAT?” McGonnagall shrieked, and turned to look aghast at Dumbledore.

“Ah, that,” Dumbledore said calmly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Van's paint job. Also, Troll's Back tattoo. And the cover of the band's first album: http://fav.me/ddsmo5l  
> Troll, who is an Ass and took over my life until I had him painted in multiple views with many of his tattoos on display: http://fav.me/ddsmnz1  
> and: http://fav.me/ddsmnho  
> (I was going to insert images in line... but DevArt now codes things so you can't get the image codes anymore. At All. Which, y'know, both great in that it keeps people from stealing shit, but also annoying AF for artists who want to share their work elsewhere.)
> 
> _“Tu as l'air froid, s'il te plait prends mon pull.”_ : "You look cold, please take my sweater."  
>  _“Je m'appelle Harry, quel est le vôtre?”_ : My name is Harry, what is your name?
> 
> _Around that were runes… and several teachers and older students who took runes gasped._  
>  Mainly they gasp because to anyone who reads Runes, the Runes say very clearly:  
> "This is my Family. I found it myself. I will walk with it to the end of all journeying, in good times and bad... and IF YOU HURT IT, I WILL UNLEASH A RAIN OF BULLSHIT OF MYTHOLOGICAL PROPORTIONS THAT YOUR PUNY MORTAL ASS IS NOT PREPARED FOR."
> 
> _nithing_ Old Norse, Meaning "Villainous" fairly hard insult. remembering that many of these translations were done by Scholars from the 1800s... I doubt they felt comfortable writing down things like "This **utter bitch** did these vile things" when said Scholars were well aware their noble-born peers would be reviewing their work.
> 
> _Albus. Wulfric. Percival. Brian. Dumbledore_  
>  No one has any idea HOW she knows his full name, but Severus thinks privately that Lily might be... helping  
> Fred and George suspect their Mum.  
> Honestly it could be Magic, we don't know.
> 
> _Great Lady’s tenderest mercies_ This is Pagan for "Bless your sweet little ol' heart." In the Southern way. AKA: you're clearly mentally deficient but I need to know how much and if it's a protected disability before I dismantle you over it.
> 
> _"Surprise, it’s a boy. And a ...Gryffindor.”_ You know she's trying not to say "Godspeed, you need it" or maybe "Good luck and a bottle of uiskebreagtha" (uiskebreagtha being the original Gaelic term for Whiskey)  
> (NatMuse tried to reach cross-universe to give Mab a bottle of Russian Vodka, but the Universes are specifically disallowing it. Certain sets of Twins Do NOT Need To Meet, Ever. The universes would implode.)


	11. Of Bats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Harry is entirely done with the nonsense of adults, time for some decidedly UNadult nonsense. Drusilla makes many people very worried. Certain not-quite-muggles drive people Batty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have the attention span of a squirrel. And with everyone staying home due to COVID19, everyone's been posting lately, many of whom haven't posted in quite a while, so I've been stuck in my inbox rereading whole series sometimes because there's suddenly a new chapter.... which means less writing has been happening. I am So Sorry.
> 
> LoveFest: BlackChat095, Crazy_Kiwi, My_Life_Is_A_Ruin, thehawkeye, aki_rozu, Jaggedheart, Gondiel, AvahHoshigaki, Aqua_Lilly, wornchalice8081, and 10 guest kudoers. BonusPoints Club: FantasyTLOU, Joey99, Masqueradewitch, Hexlorde, Aqua_Lilly, lightdefender, diabolicArbitor, ShaShirRa, hhhellcat, willowfire, ClockWeasel, thehawkeye, jasper1999x

Harry sighed. “It can wait. The Durmstrang students are...probably fine; they could probably stay out here all night without casting a single spell. The Beauxbatons students are from southern France and were  _ not _ adequately warned of the climate difference and we’ve already given out what we can. Spells or not, there’s no reason to keep either of them out here while things get sorted out when there’s a  _ perfectly good  _ castle  _ right  _ there. The first years definitely don’t need to stay on the steps all night long while you all yell at each other. It’s only October, for f-Pete’s sake, at least let them get a  _ year _ under their belts before you throw them headlong into misery and danger?”

“Ten points to Gryffindor, Mr. Potter,” Professor Sprout nodded, “You are quite right. Professor McGonagall can help your family get their marvelously painted vehicle stored away, while Hagrid takes care of Beauxbatons’ transport. The rest of us should be moving inside, the elves will gladly take your belongings to where you’ll be staying.”

With Professor Sprout briskly ushering people around, they all got moving inside. 

Well, mostly.

Drusilla… “DRU!” Harry shouted, running over to pull her from the vine she was... petting. “Dru, that’s venomous tentacula.”

“Of course it is, silly. Nothing wrong with that. Plants can’t help being what they are. Besides, only their thorns are venomous, and this fellow quite likes being pet  _ between _ his thorns.”

“Only for you, Dru. It would bite, kill, and eat  _ anyone _ else. You’re  _ also _ the only one who grows belladonna, hellebore, foxglove and aconite just because you think they’re pretty.”

She looked over the rims of her antique wire glasses at him, “Are you saying they  _ aren’t? _ ”

“Absolutely not. I’m saying that when most people grow  **multiple** ,  _ fatally poisonous _ plants, they do so specifically  _ because _ they’re fatally poisonous, not because they’re pretty. Professor Sprout will be ecstatic, in all likelihood, to introduce you to all her very pretty, lethal plants tomorrow. For now, let’s not give the wee bairns ideas like they can get away with doing things just because you can, and go inside? Aren’t your feet freezing?”

“The plants are  _ alive _ and  _ happy _ here. I like feeling them with my toes. Cold is just a mild irritant in comparison.”

“The plants will still be here and in the same mood tomorrow, Dru,” Troll chimed in. “I’m hungry, let's go eat.”

“Oh, fine,” Drusilla sighed, giving the thorned plant a pat on the head, “I’ll be back to see you tomorrow, friend.”

(If the vine waved sadly as she left, and Malfoy looked like he’d somehow landed in an amalgamation of Oz and Wonderland, complete with the Lollipop Guild riding Cheshire Cats down through oversized chess games that don’t follow any rules whatsoever, where existence itself makes no sense… Harry was pointedly ignoring both and would deny either reality ever occured if asked.)

***

At dinner, Harry noticed a lot more unusual dishes, and since his family was all jammed in around him at the Gryffindor table, he decided to take advantage of their combined knowledge of most everything.

“What’s this soup thing?” he asked.

“Bouillabaisse,” Hermione and Hela said at the same time.

“Gadsunteight,” Ron said around a mouthful of some sort of sausage. Mab gave him a look and he chewed and swallowed quickly. “Sorry.”

“You’re growing, manners with food are still going to be rough. Just had to be Moll’s voice,” Mab said. “And bouillabaisse is a French fish stew. It’s also delicious, and I would like a bowl if someone can pass it to me.”

“Excuse me,” said a softly accented voice. Harry turned to see the girl from earlier, Fleur. “Can you please pass the bouillabaisse? And perhaps introduce me to all the very interesting people?”

“Of course,” Harry said. “Fleur, this is Ron, Hermione, and Neville, they’re fourth-years like me, and Ron’s brothers Fred and George. They’re sixth-years, so about a year younger than you? I assume the visiting schools only brought the students old enough to compete….”

“This is so, but I was more wanting an introduction to your… family. They made quite the entree, oui?”

“Of course, Mab, this is Fleur, from Beauxbaton, Fleur, this is Mab… my Ma. We met last summer but she’s the best mum I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only Mum you can remember,” Mab pointed out. “You’re wearing Wit’s gloves, I assume he likes you, although I’m seeing a lot of students wearing things I know were supposed to be in his wardrobe.”

“It was freezing and nobody had warned them to bring coats, or anything!” Ron said, waving wildly. “Someone had to do something and if it wasn’t us, who was it going to be?”

“He’s going to be like Troll someday,” Dru said dreamily. “The Dad of the group. I’m going over to the blue table to talk with Luna. It was nice to meet you, Fleur.”

“That was Drusilla, by the way,” Hela said. “She’s nice but forgets things like telling people your name when there’s interesting space cadet stuff to do. I’m Hela, but I’m also going to the blue table now, someone needs to make sure Dru doesn’t wander off and unionize the bees or something.”

“That only happened once, and it wasn’t Dru’s fault,” Troll said. “The bees were already unionizing, they’re hive species, unions are kinda how they work. Anyhow, keeping the line moving, the two vikings there are Kothaar and Vvornth, Bowie is the shiny one currently inhaling an entire pie. The NOT shiny one egging him on is Sparkles… it’s a long story. Pink is… uh….”

“Over there sighing at Flitwick,” Harry said with a nod. “I think they’re swapping waistcoat tailoring tips. Pink’s got the dreamy look reserved for clothing crushes on.”

“And what school are you all from?”

Troll and Mab exchanged looks that were both cautious and amused before Troll answered, “Óðr, Visigoth Academy of Outsiders.”

“I have not heard of thees school before.”

Mab got a serious look on her face, one that made Wit cringe because he knew mischief was coming, and said almost-snobilly, “Our motto is, ‘Cum Romae, incendere omnia.’” She finished the sentence with her glass raised in a mock-toast, “In ignis.”

Yep, there it was, Wit twitched, torn between laughing and hiding.  _ When you’re in Rome, burn everything.  _ Indeed. Nevertheless, he raised his own glass and responded “Incendere.” He was the spawn of the Marauders and  _ Lily Evans _ , they’d be so ashamed if he let a good joke go to waste. Probably especially when it involved fire.

Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes. “They’re teasing you, and each other. They’re not from a school. From what I understand, they do all have magic, but wizarding society is, at best, unaware their type of magic exists, if not outright denying it. Most wizards will attempt to class them as muggles or squibs, despite the fact that they have identifiable,  _ usable _ , magic. They don’t use wands, and all taught themselves. The word for our particular subculture, which delights in being Outcatse, outsiders,  _ other  _ \-- Goth -- is derived from the Visigoths, who sacked Rome in 410AD and burned most of it to the ground.”

Hermione, Ron, and Neville bowed out of dinner early to go get changed, Neville giving Hermione puppy eyes for his own goth makeover, while Wit told his new family about the dance party they were arranging, and could they please borrow some Bowie-Modified speakers on batteries for it?

Of course, the answer was “yes and we have spare clothes if anyone needs them.”

Which is how, as the visiting students milled about, unsure if they should go to bed yet, Hermione entered the Great Hall in Lolita skirts, several layers of torn fishnet shirts, camouflage tights with holes at the knee, big black boots, a dutch braid under a top hat, and war makeup. Behind her trailed Ron, his hair spiked and glaringly orange, matching the aggressive spiked lines around his right eye, and the neon shadow on the left. Beside Hermoine and Neville (who had ended up in a satin poet’s shirt and a neon blue kilt), Ron’s cloak seemed almost tame. That was, until Harry, himself in a sleeveless trenchcoat, tank top, tight pants with zippers everywhere (barely not as tight as Bowie’s, although both boys  _ were  _ in the same purple eyeshadow), turned on the music. 

Ron leapt onto the table, tossing back the cloak to reveal he was not wearing a shirt, but WAS wearing an open leather vest covered in studs.

“Hello, Hogwarts! A few quick announcements. One, we’re all so very glad to have visitors! Make them welcome, ask them to dance. Ask them to show you how to dance if you don’t know how -- who am I kidding, it’s moving to music, you can figure it out. Two, my brothers, Gred and Forge are selling prank sweets and the Canary Cremes are delicious but make you tweet. Do not take free candy unless you’re willing to make a gamble. Three… some of you may be wondering ‘why are you dressed like that?” Well, we have an answer. Hit it, Wit!”

Harry turned the music from a simple instrumental to the opening chords of Voltaire’s Raised by Bats. Hermione sang along in full Theatrical Mode, elevating the slightly silly song with the same pain she would have put into I Dreamed A Dream.

_ Here at home in this steeple _

_ Made of chrome, above a city of steel, _

_ I’ve chosen bats over people _

_ ‘Cause I never did like the way humans made me feel. _

Hermione pulled Neville up on the table with her and began leading him in East Coast Swing. Her skirts flipped and swished, covering his hesitation, until he figured out that it was the same few steps over and over again. She kept up the theatrics even while dancing, adopting a snobby aire for the chorus, as Ron and Harry joined in swinging, throwing in just a bit of Jive.

_ So we sleep all day and we rise at night _

_ And we spread our wings and take into the skies. _

_ And when the people look up and stare _

_ And say, “Why you gotta be like that?” _

_ I just look them in the eye and tell them _

_ I was raised by bats! _

Harry drew a deep breath and belted out the second verse. He knew what it felt like, after all, to be weak and pushed around. He saw tears gleaming at the edge of Neville’s eyes and shot the other boy a comforting smile.

_ When I was young, I was feeble _

_ And it stung when they pushed me down. _

_ I was so hated by these people, _

_ That I knew I had to do what I could to get out of that town. _

_ So I ran away to this sacred place _

_ And was taken in by creatures of the night. _

Mab, herself doing a credible version of The Twist on a bench stuck a fist up and shouted “Damn straight!”

_ Now when the people all stop and stare _

_ And say, "Why you gotta dress like that?" _

_ I just look them in the eye and tell them _

_ I was raised by bats! _

Draco Malfoy and FitzRoy walked in as Ron picked up the bridge. Draco very promptly made a ‘nope’ face and turned around. Fitz softened briefly, a hint of the new and improved version sticking out before he slammed it down with a scowl that only partly covered the wistful look in his eyes.

_ Those dark days seem far away _

_ I've risen to a better place _

_ So do like me, follow the dream like that. _

_ Just throw your old life away _

_ And get raised by bats! _

_ So we sleep all day and we rise at night _

_ And we spread our wings and take into the skies. _

_ We do it all our way, live our lives like that _

_ And there’s no one here to fill our heads with lies. _

The voices raised louder and louder as more students caught on to the words, and by the final chorus half the Great Hall was singing, the other half dancing, and those who’d ended up too winded to do either were laughing.

_ And when the people all stop and stare _

_ And say, “Why you gotta be like that?” _

_ When the people all stop and stare _

_ And say, “Why you gotta dress like that?” _

_ When the people all stop and stare _

_ And say, “Why you gotta be like that?” _

_ I just punch them in the eye and I bite them on the thigh _

_ And I kick them in the ass where the sun don’t shine. _

_ I look them in the eye and tell them _

_ I was raised by bats! _

_ I just look them in the eye and tell them _

_ I was raised by bats! _

_ I was raised by bats! _

_ I was raised by bats! _

“I appreciate this Goth Music,” Viktor Krum said loudly as the song ended. “It eez quite good... For an English-speaking musician. Continental bands are far better, of course.”

Harry grinned at the first softening of the Durmstrang student body and threw on a random track from Blutengel. One of their all German lyrics ones, but it was pretty and required much less athletic dancing. Several people were discovering how much exercise dancing could be and it showed. FitzRoy flinched and left without stopping to talk to Harry or the newcomers. It hurt, but there were so many good songs to share, especially now that the other schools knew he had foreign language songs. He tossed on Os Senhores da Guerra by Moonspell and tried not to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m hungry, let's go eat.”_  
>  Every Clan-dad's favorite way to solve every problem is to declare hunger supersedes all. Troll is also capable of _**spontaneously**_ becoming half-starved. Even if dinner wasn't even an hour ago.
> 
>  _he decided to take advantage of their combined knowledge of most everything._  
>  Slight bit of that thing where you think your parents are all knowing, except spread across a group where it's 80% accurate. They ARE broadly learned, and all specialize knowledge in really weird things. And time periods. And pick up all sorts of knowledge kinda-sorta-vaguely related. Chances are, SOMEONE knows the answer to a question, or knows who does.
> 
>  _"Just had to be Moll's voice."_  
>  Molly Weasley's Goth-given nickname. Like Mob Moll, except she's Mab's Moll.
> 
>  _Dru doesn’t wander off and unionize the bees or something.”_  
>  Dru is Hela's Hufflepuff. Re:Slytherin/Hufflepuff memes. Dru makes Hela **worry** and worrying gives you lines, and really it's best if she sticks close so that she doesn't get lines, that's all. Nothing more to it. Nope. Not one bit. (We ship them as a queer/ace platonic couple.)
> 
>  _‘Cum Romae, incendere omnia.’_ When you are in Rome, burn everything.  
> I was originally going for "When in Rome, set everything on fire," but, well, English and Latin don't actually like each other all that much, so translators have _issues_ with the most common English phrases for causing something to become on fire. "Light it on fire" keeps getting words like "lux". "Set it on fire" keeps getting words that mean "position"...
> 
>  _In ignis._  
>  In (the) fire.
> 
>  _camouflage tights..._  
>  Theatrical/dancer's tights from when her theater performed A Midsummer Night's Dream.
> 
>  _aggressive spiked lines around his right eye,_  
>  A la A Clockwork Orange makeup for Ronniekins today.
> 
>  _German Lyrics Blutengel songs/ Other Foreign Language music_  
>  We... actually have long threads of notes debating which of a bunch of songs these bits are applying to, so, really, pick your favorite. (though there are several songs that Severus has a love-hate relationship with on account of "Oh, Worm.")
> 
>  _I was raised by Bats!_  
>  https://youtu.be/hb7W_cikUp0


	12. Thursday’s Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Becoming Officially Family means getting to partake in weird family traditions. One of those traditions is setting argumentative patriarchs on sources of inadequate protection. One of them is dancing on a boat. For once, Harry gets to do the fun one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bairn posting today because I happened to have the spare brain for it. Please excuse the differences in how Valky and I do notes and such.
> 
> Love Fest: Kniss_07, booksdragonmagicfiddle, mia939, RakashiaDraconis, WrenWriter13, PoisonLyra, IantoLives, and 5 guest kudoers! Bonus love to: FantasyTLOU, hhhellcat, IantoLives, thehawkeye, Joey99, ClockWeasel, willowfire, PoisonLyra, lightdefender, and jasper1999x.

The two days between the arrival of the other schools and the official opening of the tournament were to be half-days, covering the core classes only and finishing at lunch. Thursday morning, Wit could tell it was not going to be a good day before breakfast was even over. It was going to be a _Professor Snape_ day, not a FitzRoy day. He pulled Harry firmly into place on his face as he watched the head table carefully. Potions class was going to be… well, like last year, if not worse. 

_Snape_ was pale -- paler than usual for him, at any rate -- and his hand had just the barest hint of halting to its motion, as if rigidly controlling a shake. He was also scowling harder than he had when sitting down the table from Professor Lu- _Remus_. Granted, he seemed to be scowling most at Headmaster Karkaroff, followed by Professor Moody, rather than spending the majority of the meal scowling across the hall at Harry, but that didn’t reassure him much.

He wasn’t _wrong_ … 

By the time he got through Transfiguration and to Potions, he’d worked himself into quite a lather, worrying over what had FitzRoy acting like Snape again, whether he’d done something wrong, how the professor would be acting in class, what he could do in damage control… He didn’t even notice when Hermione and Ron took up positions to either side of him, glaring at anything that might make him more jittery. Troll noticed the protective stances as they passed by him and the Vikings in the hall, but none of the three saw the glance he shared with his compatriots.

In Potions, Professor Snape, paler and seemingly-greasier than normal, was snappish with an acid tongue, but it wasn't like last year. He snapped at everyone, not just Harry and Neville, but Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini, too. Harry felt better that it wasn't just him, but it also felt so much worse, not knowing why. 

They’d handed in this week’s essays, Ron’s twice as much parchment as everyone Not-Hermione’s, but more than 3/4ths illustrations and diagrams demonstrating that he knows the subject even if his word usage was somewhat lacking, and Professor Snape sneering that he hoped they’d managed to learn how to write something vaguely better than the usual idiotic drivel. They’d set to finishing the potion they’d started on Tuesday, and Professor Snape critiqued each and every one of them so hard that Hermione was shaking and Malfoy looked close to tears. Harry and Neville were holding up rather better than the Slytherins, to everyone’s surprise, mostly because they’d already had three years of practice, and he wasn’t any worse to them than he was last year. It wasn’t _new,_ exactly; it was just new that it was being given to the Slytherins too.

At least the essays from last week had already been graded before whatever-this-was set Snape off, as they were fairly graded and only Crabbe’s seemed to be bleeding. Ron’s illustrations from last week had a few minor corrections in red, and his spelling and grammar errors on his shorter written portion were fixed in green ink, denoting that he wasn’t marked down for them.

Harry needed to know what was going on with his maybe-uncle-friend, but knew asking himself would be hazardous. Maybe Ma or Troll could find out? Maybe he should just keep his head down and hope it blows over soon…

_Like that has worked ever so well in the last 13 years._

***

“We need to properly welcome Wit to the clan,” Kothaar announced at lunch. “He has a lake, and I asked Moll about getting the ship from storage. They can get it here.”

“But Family gets the ship out of the boathouse,” Pink said with a small frown. Today was a skirt day, with a corset and a puff-sleeved shirt both in iridescent shades between pink and lavender. “And it’s cold, parts of that are going to be deeply uncomfortable.”

“No, we really need to do it now,” Troll said. “After Mab got done with him this morning, Dumb-door got us the contact information for the people looking after Wit’s finances. For one, they could be doing so much more if they had permission to _invest_ any of it, and for another, he actually owns property and it needs someone to look after it. Since he’s here during the school year, one of us needs to be his proxy and help get the houses fixed back up and such.”

“Wait, houses, plural?” Harry asked around a bite of chicken. Mab coughed and he swallowed. “What do you mean _houses_?”

“A small manor house near the border of Wales, and a farm house in the Scottish lowlands,” Troll said. “The manor may be shot, we’ll have to go give it a look but manor houses aren’t generally built to last without an occupant. The farm is way more likely to be salvageable.”

“Farm?” asked Dru hopefully.

“Yes Dru, a few acres, a barn, and an owlery. And the house. But at any rate, we need to be able to help with that, and we can’t without Wit being present.”

“And knock-off Gandalf said we needed more than Magic to qualify us as Guardians for the purpose of taking Wit off campus,” Mab said, finishing the thought. “Which means we need to properly welcome him to the family. Moll’s husband, the duck guy?” 

“Camelot,” Bowie filled in. She nodded.

“He fast-laned some paperwork to accept us as legal guardians, provided official steps have been made for both Muggle law and… ‘however by Merlin’s tits you got Magic Itself to consider you Kin’. I assume that means our traditions.”

“What exactly are these traditions?” Hermione asked.

“Well, we’re Norse Pagans,” Vvornth said. “So we use Old Norse Law. So Mab’s gonna put on this shoe, and then Wit will put it on….”

Kothaar slapped his boyfriend’s shoulder. “Stop that, the shoe thing is weird and gross. We have a dance circle on the deck of the replica longship this ass and I made when we were teens. Wit plays drum and keeps time, the rest of us sing.”

“That’s not so bad,” Harry said.

“And then they upend a cup of water on your head for luck,” Pink said with a scowl. “I was wearing SILK you twats.”

“We can make it less of a cup of water and more an anointment,” Mab declared.

“But Pink said Family has to get the boat out of the boat house,” Wit said, confused.

Vvornth smiled, “Family _is_ getting the boat out of the boathouse. I made several calls last night when I saw your lake and Magic made her declaration. My brother, Kothaar’s, and Ro, our tattoo artist, you haven’t met her yet, are getting the longboat out. Then Moll, Camelot, and Septimus are bringing it and them up here. They’ll set it down the same distance from the lake as the boathouse is from the Thames, and we’ll get it into the lake the traditional way.”

“I hate to ask…”

“Logs on the ground and ropes,” Vvornth grinned, wickedly, “One team uses ropes to pull the boat across rolling logs, another picks up the logs from behind and runs them around to the front. _You_ will be in the boat, drumming to keep us on time and in sync.”

Kothaar took up the explanation, far more seriously than his partner. “Each part is important. The pullers need to pull together, in the same direction, at the same time. The log team need to work together to lift the logs, and move at the same speed in the same directions, to get the logs to the front, faster than the pullers are moving the ship, without running into the pullers or other log-pairs. The drummer keeps everyone in sync and in tune with each other. The same is true once the boat is in the water, as the rowers must row together or we’ll get nowhere, thus we all pull and row and run to the beat of the drum.”

Viktor Krum, who had been at the next table, and had heard most of the conversation, leaned over. “Most importantly, eet iz all done wizzout Magic. The tradition iz magic in and of itself, the act of working as a single unit, without spells to aid, provides the magic. Do you have enough persons to fill both teams? I can help pull if you need more hands.”

The Hogwarts students stared at him in confusion, and Viktor shrugged. “Bulgaria is on the border of Sarmatian and Western Hun territory, but _Durmstrang_ is in the Baltic Sea, and has students from the North Sea to the Black Sea. Many families still have their traditions from Viking, Sarmatian, and Hun ancestors. One of my roommates iz of Viking descent. I learned. I do not think anyone actually knows zhe meening of zhe shoe thing.”

Sparkles grinned brightly. “Тэнгригийн ачаар морины мэдлэгийг завины мэдлэгт хөрвүүлэх чадварыг ойлгодог нэг хүн байдаг.”

Krum smiled and it was like looking at the sun coming out from clouds, beautiful and painful.

“So when are we doing this boat launching dance thing?” Ron asked.

“Tonight, right after dinner,” Troll said. “You have time to get anyone you want to be with you for it.”

***

Harry ended up recruiting the Weasley Twins, Luna Lovegood and Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Oliver Wood and the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, Krum, and to everyone’s surprise, Fleur and Hugo. 

“Are you sure?” she asked when he invited them. The two looked at each other with matched confusion.

“Strength doesn’t matter as much when you’ve got more people,” Harry explained. “Mainly I want witnesses from every corner I can get them, so nobody can argue this isn’t real. And you two are nice.”

When it came time to launch the ship, it seemed like half the school was there. Mostly it was girls who “happened” to be “wandering by” and tittering at Troll, who was, of course, flexing and shirtless. However, the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Quidditch teams were also there, in work clothes.

“Hey Harry,” said Cedric Diggory, Captain of Hufflepuff’s team. “We know we’re not really family, not like your team is, but you’re a damn good Seeker and we wanted to show our support. Is there anything we can do?”

“Crowd control,” Mab said. “We need a clear pathway and I don’t want anyone getting hit with logs.”

Diggory looked at the milling crowd and nodded. “Right. O'Flaherty, MacAvoy, and Applebee, can you get the girls moved back? Beaters, form up to make a line and we’ll do a Bronson’s Sweep to make room.”

“What he said,” Davies agreed. “Chasers take flank, let’s scoop ‘em up!”

It was a good thing they moved the crowd back, as pretty soon a whirling gust of wind, followed by a loud popping sound, signaled the arrival of the longship.

While everyone was making impressed sounds at the arrival of Molly and Arthur Weasley and an entire literal boatload of more Goths, Professors McGonagall and Snape arrived.

“Professors! What are you doing here?” Harry asked, somewhat amazed by how many people had shown up. He saw a few others from the other schools, too, standing with the crowd.

“This arrangement holds more magical and legal weight if witnessed by school officials,” McGonagall said. “I’m here as your head of house. Severus is accompanying me because his word that this was binding means somewhat more than mine in some circles.”

“Because _everyone knows_ I’d rather remove and regrow my own teeth than lie to help a _Potter_ ,” Snape said harshly. If it weren’t for the conversations they’d had when he was being FitzRoy, and the distinct emphasis on a last name he didn’t use for Harry anymore, it would have felt cruel. As it was, Harry nodded. He’d lied like that before, to escape punishment. True… but not. The towering monster that was Snape could still be used, even if Harry wished he didn’t have to.

“Alright, Wit, it’s about time to get this show on the road,” Troll announced. “Septimus Weasley is headed up to the castle, Minerva… I’d advise being on hand. He had a _look_ that reminded me of Dad and that’s not a good thing no matter how kind he is.”

McGonagall sighed. “Severus, would you mind standing as Hogwarts’ representative?” she asked. “I feel I may need to go save our Headmaster from the consequences of his own actions.”

FitzRoy burst out from the mask of Snape in a wild look of surprise and confusion as he was guided to a rope. Harry hid his chuckle in his sleeve as Sparkles handed off the drum for keeping time. From there, the whole thing felt surreal and almost more magical than anything had since his first year. Studying magic gave it structure and rules, if you did everything the same way you had before, you would get the same result… like science. This was raw, unfiltered and unpackaged in neat rituals. Like perhaps what the earliest witches and wizards did, before framing everything into Almost-Latin and the waving of wands.

Troll’s clear voice was cutting through the sound of the ship being pulled, the vowels of his words lilting in a way Harry only partly recognized from walking past the room the Jewish students co-opted to do their services in. Sparkes was singing in the same language he had teased Krum in before. Mab, Dru, and Bowie were singing in Gaelic, and from what he could hear… the words were a close, if not direct, translation of the Norse being sung by Kothaar, Vvornth, and Hela.

The ship crossed the edge of the lake before Harry was fully aware they’d made it. His mind was floating, somewhat, as Mab wrapped her arms around him and guided him to the dance circle. He played his drum, sometimes losing the beat and meandering off in the joy of making sounds, but the other instruments just flowed with the changes. The dancers worked around both, throwing their whole bodies into the pure joy of existing. Mab’s braids flew out from her body in an arc that dusted the deck of the ship with feathery detritus. Troll’s acrobatic leaps seemed on the edge of true flight. Hela and Dru were locked in something halfway between an Elizabethan court dance and a tango, changing over lead and follow with the rise and sink of the deck beneath them. Sparkles, Nergal, and Wrath were leading Ron and Neville in headbanging, while Tick, Pink, and two muggle-dressed men Harry assumed were Kothaar and Vvornth’s brothers swept Fleur, Hugo, Krum and Snape off into a whirling half-waltz half-polka abomination. Time lost meaning, blurring at the edges as the family danced.

It was horribly late by the time the ship was dragged off the lake. Everyone had been dancing so long, Harry wasn’t fully sure how they’d manage to get her back onto the logs. Hela said something vague about help from a friend and he left it be, although he could have sworn he saw her waving to a thick, undulating tentacle as Mab loaded him into a carriage. Perhaps the Giant Squid _was_ friendly… to Hela, anyways.

Mab tucked him into bed, and that would be horribly embarrassing if it weren’t for the fact that Molly Weasley was tucking in Ron and Dru was fussing over Neville’s bed for some reason. As it was, he was able to accept having his Ma arrange his pillows and crack the bed curtains just enough for a small amount of light from the one lantern to slip through.

“Night Ma,” he mumbled.

“Goodnight my pup,” she said, and he fell asleep. 

***

Far from the raucous joy of the replica Viking Warship, another battle was taking place, over biscuits and tea.

“She wasn’t wrong, you know,” Septimus Weasley said pointedly. Dumbledore shifted slightly in his seat and tried to ignore the judgmental looks of everyone in the room… Fawkes included.

“Yes, well, I have been doing rather a lot lately, with the renewed threat of Voldemort….”

“That stops holding water as an excuse when students are more in danger from your own malfeasance than from the Dark Forces with which you battle,” Septimus interrupted. “Abuse of magical creatures aside, the challenges you put in place to stall anyone seeking the Sorcerer’s Stone should NOT have been accessible to first years, and claiming that your decreeing the corridor off limits counts is naive at best and criminally obtuse at worst. You’ve taught for how many years? Students, unless they’ve changed drastically from when I was a boy, see ‘off limits’ signs as invitations. You’re almost lucky it was a precocious group of mystery hounding first years that fell across that dog, and not some horny sixth years looking for a private place to snog.”

“We did actually have monitor spells on that corridor,” McGonagall pointed out. “I’ve simply no idea how those three managed to slip by undetected. Quirrell, sure, he’s a grown wizard who knows many spells to pass without trace… the children, though? I assumed we’d caught everyone who’d tried it. Merlin knows we certainly caught enough of them.”

“Hmm,” Septimus said, sipping his tea. “Well then, moving on to the next year. While I don’t fault you for not finding Salazar’s secrets out the first time it was opened, one does have to wonder why you let the school remain open when it was clear it had been reopened. Surely you knew it could lead to a student’s death, as it did before?”

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “With the renewed threat of Voldemort, it seemed unwise to send certain at-risk students home if we could keep an eye on them here. Also, we didn’t wish to disrupt the schooling of our--”

“Like it wasn’t disruptive to see friends petrified?” Septimus asked harshly. “My grand-daughter STILL has night terrors. Besides, your claim to care about education is particularly thin when discussing the year you invited _Gilderoy Lockhart_ to teach.”

“Honestly, Albus, I am inclined to agree,” Minerva added. _“That_ was a terrible choice. Although you redeemed yourself slightly the next year by hiring Lupin. He was fantastic, the children all improved that year. Even in other subjects.”

“Yes, last year was astoundingly better,” Septimus agreed. “Although I’m not best pleased you gave a time turner to a child simply so she could overwork herself. Even the brightest students need to rest and relax sometimes, and frankly from what Ronald has said, Miss Granger could have used the lesson in the prioritization inherent in being asked to _pick_ electives, rather than stuff all of them into her schedule without consideration.”

“Hermione Granger has the potential to become the finest witch of all time,” Dumbledore said. “I felt we should encourage her--”

“You don’t encourage a child to eat too many sweets, Albus!” Septimus snapped. “You enforce healthy habits, because children have yet to learn them, or the self control needed to self-enforce. By allowing that nonsense, you sent the very clear message that her health and emotional well-being were second to her academic performance. Yes, she _liked_ it… but it wasn’t good for her.”

Dumbledore grumbled and took another sip of tea.

“And now, this year,” Septimus said. “This year, I hear you’ve invited Alastor Moody. A good choice, I would have said, except apparently Moody received your personal permission to use Unforgivables on students. Permission he is _using_.”

“He argued quite well that they need to be prepared. If they don’t know what they’ll face out there -- and it is assured they will face Dark wizards and witches who do use Unforgivables -- then they will fall. We are not just preparing students to become members of our society. We are preparing the next generation to take up a fight we ourselves have not finished.”

“Demonstrating them, I could see that,” Septimus said. “Not if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had remained vanquished, but given the current situation… perhaps. However, I greatly disagree with allowing anyone to cast such curses on children. _Especially_ Imperio, which we know can have long term effects following frequent use. What’s more, I find it highly suspect that Alastor Moody of all people would do so. He’s an odd, paranoid, hard sort of man, but he’s never been cruel to children. He hated how fast some of the Order had to grow up… he called it a damn shame that someone with the natural skills of Lily Evans had to waste her Charms potential on defensive wards, and he called her and her husband ‘kids’ until the day they died. He would never do this.”

“And yet, it seems he _has_ ,” Minerva said. “Which is a conundrum we will not solve tonight. It is late, Gentlemen, and tomorrow will be a long enough day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> “Тэнгригийн ачаар морины мэдлэгийг завины мэдлэгт хөрвүүлэх чадварыг ойлгодог нэг хүн байдаг.” -- Thanks to Tengri, there is one who understands difficulty in translating horse knowledge into boat knowledge. (Mongolian)
> 
> Notes:  
> Title comes from the line "Thursday's Child Has Far To Go" from a poem about what a baby's life will be like based on the day of week they're born. Also, this chapter takes place Thursday, Oct 28th, 2004, and boy do they ever have far to go.
> 
> Moll is, as established, nicknamed Moll. Her husband's name is Arthur, if you think the Goths wouldn't immediately start calling him Camelot, we clearly have not been specific enough about their character building.
> 
> Old Norse Law actually DOES have legal rules for adoption, and they do involve a special leather shoe. It is however weird and gross, so the group does not do it. The authors's current guess about the shoe thing is that it was an elaborate practical joke that got taken too far.
> 
> The Thames flows through the north part of Surrey. As Little Whinging doesn't exist here, we don't know which part of Surrey it's in, the Authors are claiming it's in the north part, where there are lakes, reservoirs, ponds, and the Thames all over the place.
> 
> Sparkles is ethnically Mongolian, and while that culture doesn't do boats so much (landlocked as Mongolia kinda is) they do have a lot in common with the Norse. Tengri is one of the names for the chief deity worshiped by the early Mongolian peoples.
> 
> O'Flaherty, MacAvoy, and Applebee are the three girls on the Puff team. Interestingly, Hufflepuff is the only team to consistently show a reasonable gender balance in the books.
> 
> Dru has half-adopted Neville as her own. Partially due to ages, partially because Neville HAS semi-non-shitty family, Dru mostly plays the role of Big Sister (the sort that is seen in Party of Five and Lilo&Stitch, where Big Sis is also pseudo-parent, without being Actually Parent.) She is however Entirely Willing to camp out on Augusta Longbottom's front porch and make a nuisance of herself All Summer if needed to protect Neville.
> 
> Baby bats are called Pups. Due to the song from last chapter (and general feelings about Bats=Goths in the Goth community) Harry is now Mab's Baby Bat.
> 
> Dementors are left out in the conversation about the general fuckwittery of Hogwarts's admin, as everyone in that room does actually understand the tenuous political line that had to be walked there. Mab will bring them up often and at volume, as she has other issues with their existence and use by the DMLE, but that's not the topic Septimus is focused on.
> 
> Even without potential trauma from moral injury, repeated Imperio cast by a skilled user can be used to plant further orders beyond the spoken ones... orders like allowing oneself to be put in danger by stupid tournaments one shouldn't be in.


	13. Family Values

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday, October 29th.  
> Family is the best thing ever, especially when they're utterly terrifying. Anxieties, worries, and revelations only dim that a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so the Super Angst got moved back a chapter, this one only has a bit of build up to it, but buckle up for next chapter, it's almost entirely angst.
> 
> LoveFest: Niyuu_Trickster_Kat, drarry_wins, Muckyb03, Colddoesbotherme, Potterlet, Peachy_Morn, Chairvermin, fabrefaction, Scylla67, hp_marvel_fan, SkyWolf14, and 15 guest kudoers!  
> BonusPoints: FantasyTLOU, willowfire, IantoLives, Joey99, ClockWeasel, lightdefender, thehawkeye, hhhellcat, and Niyuu_Trickster_Kat

Friday started slowly, with Binns and History. Troll showed up and sat at the very back for part of the lecture on the Goblin War… but since he didn’t have to stay, he slipped out halfway through. Harry wished he could, since this lecture was far more boring than anything about a battle called “The Stonetooth Rebellion” ought to be.

After History, they had an hour of charms, practicing the Summoning Charm. Troll reappeared, along with Pink, although Troll ducked back out again. Pink stayed through the entire thing in the back row, sighing at Flitwick, or perhaps at Flitwick’s brocade vest and silk jacket in complementing peacock shades.

Dru joined Pink in the back of Herbology, although Professor Sprout quickly put both of them to work alongside the students. There was nothing inherently magical about training Fairy Bonsai, or in picking mites off the Blushing Maiden Verbena, which Dru insisted on doing once she saw the sad plant trying to hide it’s pseudo-face behind hand-shaped leaves. Pink struck up a conversation with Neville about various magical flora and Harry hid a small smile. It wasn’t so bad, having his family stopping by classes. They didn’t draw attention, and it felt nice to have another ally at his back. He could focus better that way, which was good, since Defense Against the Dark Arts was next.

Mab joined the little cluster of Goths, sitting in the back with a disturbingly wide grin and a batch of needle-felting. Primarily this hobby involved repeatedly stabbing a section of wool roving with a cluster of barbed needles on a handle, and she usually only did it for stress relief. Harry eyed her and decided that maybe she also did it to send a message, and that message was the same as the one on her favorite embroidered pillow… namely: **_“This is proof I have the patience to stab something 10,000 times.”_ **

Based on how much Professor Moody twitched whenever he glanced in that direction, it was a safe bet that it was a message received loud and clear.

Wit grinned. Mab was as cuddly as a teddy bear. And as terrifying as an angry dragon. He loved it.

***

Wit wasn’t sure how, exactly, but he managed to misplace each of the family (and just thinking that word as something that applied to  _ him,  _ for the first time in his memory, put a grin on his face) by the time he got to the stairs down to lunch.

The grin faded as he watched the students around him. Fifth and Seventh years that had their double-length classes Monday-Wednesday-Friday, in specific. Hufflepuffs were pale. Gryffindors were red with anger. Two fifth year Ravenclaws looked ready to cry. Then there were the Slytherins. The Slytherins gave him the clue to what had happened.  _ Slytherins _ were confused, twitchy, and somber. Potions. It had to be, which meant…

_ Harry _ slammed into place as he approached the doors of the Great Hall. He stopped just outside and watched carefully. His guess was wrong. Professor Snape was  _ not _ as bad off as he was yesterday.

He was  _ worse. _

His face was the completely blank look Madam Tonks had told him was symptomatic of Occluding too hard. He wasn’t as pale as yesterday, but his hand was actually shaking, and Professor McGonagall was giving him a look that was both chastising and concerned every time he spoke. He wasn’t sure what any of that actually  _ meant _ . But he was certain that it wasn’t good.

***

Hermione and Ron, standing behind Harry in the doorway shared a worried look. Harry was twitchier than usual even for their twice-yearly catastrophes, and the first one wasn’t scheduled for another three days. 

Ron cringed and shrugged. No, he had no idea if this meant Halloween would be worse than usual, but he really,  _ really _ hoped not. Maybe they’d get the problem sorted early?

Hermione widened her eyes, raised a brow and jerked her head meaningfully.

Ron sighed, slumped, and then straightened sharply, making sure to project his voice so it drew attention without actually being loud.

***

“Harry!”   
  
Harry startled, his attention pulled from the oddly-behaving staff just in time to avoid a … problematic reaction to Ron’s hand coming down on his shoulder lightly, then sliding across to the other side to guide him to a table.

“I have to ask, what was Mab doing in there? I caught the stabbing and grinning and Moody’s twitchiness, but I have no clue what was going on there.”

Harry smirked, it felt a bit wobbly, but he ignored it. “Which part? What she was doing or what Professor Moody understood she was doing?”

“...There’s a difference?”

“Very much so. One is a craft, the other is a skill.”

“You have my attention. Explain.”

“The craft is called needle felting, which is where you make shapes and structures out of wool… by stabbing said wool thousands of times with tiny barbed needles, in this case, needles on a stick. The skill is that while she was crafting, she was also informing someone she deemed a threat that she is not only willing and able, but  _ enthusiastically happy _ to stab  _ them _ thousands of times with barbed needles. Mab can make almost any craft you can imagine threatening. You should see her with large gauge knitting needles or crochet hooks. The leatherworking and embroidery tools are a little obvious in their implied threats, so she saves them for when she feels someone is quite…  _ daft. _ ”

Hermione actually looked confused for a moment. “The knitting needles I understand, but how does one make a large crochet hook threatening?”

“Really fat yarn roughly the color of intestines… Oh. Oh, No.”

Harry had finally spotted Troll… and immediately forgot about his Snapely-worries. Troll was having a…  _ fervent _ discussion with the Weasley Twins. And Percy graduated last year, and Molly and Arthur left last night, meaning there was no one to control the twins. And he had no idea where Mab was, so there was no one to sit on Troll either. Maybe Professor McGonagall…?

**_“OPHIUCHUS MOSES GREY,_ ** SON of  **OPHIUCHUS ANTARES GREY!”**

Oh good, Mab was here, and already at work corralling Troll. Though Harry had no idea what she was yelling at him for, with both his and his father’s full name, even. For them, even just the more ordinary full-real-name was a good bit  _ beyond  _ angry. Adding in Old Man Ophie’s was just… Someone was going to die.

He didn't hear enough of Mab’s rant to know what, exactly, Troll did that resulted in a lecture -- involving “Thinking,” “Your father taught you to use your words more carefully,” and “privacy” -- because a spluttering noise, followed by a shriek from the Slytherin table distracted him.

Harry was sorry he hadn't been looking in that direction earlier, as it was clear Malfoy had done a spit take all over Parkinson while whipping around to stare at Troll and Mab.

Malfoy ignored Parkinson’s indignant shrieking and straightened, becoming suddenly more… quintessentially  _ Malfoy,  _ before striding resolutely over to still-scolding Mab and chagrined Troll. Harry hurried Hermione and Ron in the same direction. He had no idea what was going on, but it was bound to be interesting, possibly enough to distract him from everything else.

“Pray pardon,” Malfoy interrupted. “I think I misheard. Did you just say his name is Ophiucus Moses Grey, and that his father’s name was-”   
  
“Is. Ophiucus Antares Grey, Barrister, Doctor of Law and Master of the Bench at Gray’s Inn, has been driving the Criminal Courts at the Old Bailey mad for two decades and shows no signs of stopping any time soon.”

Troll nodded amiably, “Arguing is his favorite occupation, he probably wouldn’t stop even if he was dead. He’s an ass like that. It’s a family trait.”

Malfoy blinked for a moment and then stunned the Hall into silence. He faced the top-hatted, shirtless, tattooed and pierced ruffian in full, bowed slightly and extended his hand. “Well then. Well met, cousin.”

***

“Clearly Troll can’t be left unsupervised,” Mab said with a glare at the now-contrite subject of her displeasure. “So, tour? Anything fun or interesting around here?”

“Um, unless you want the tour of places I almost died I think you’ve seen it all,” Harry said. Mab’s mouth tightened and he felt bad. “Oh, or I could show you the Chamber of Secrets? The Basilisk is dead now so it shouldn’t be dangerous and I always kinda meant to go back and look around but I just didn’t have the time before.”

“That’s the giant snake, right? From your second year?” Troll asked, perking up. He loved snakes, although he didn’t seem upset about Harry killing one, because he loved Wit more than he loved snakes. Which Wit tried not to think about much, as it was still rather weird. Troll  _ really _ loved snakes, that he loved Wit  _ more _ than that...

“Yep, that’s the one,” Harry said, and the three of them headed to the second floor girl’s bathroom.

“What do you want?” Myrtle snapped at them. Harry put his hands up in a peacekeeping gesture and waited for the ghost to calm a bit.

“Hi Myrtle, this is Mab and Troll. Troll, Mab, meet Myrtle, she’s been haunting the bathroom since she died here. Basilisk got her.”

“How awful,” Mab said.

“Oh but on the bright side we get to meet the lovely lady,” Troll said and offered a courtly bow. “What a waste it would have been if death were really an ending.”

“Is he teasing me?” Myrtle asked Harry.

“Not really, he’s like this almost all the time,” Harry said with a shrug. “It gets worse if he thinks you look sad, though. Trust me, you’re observant enough you’ll  _ know  _ if he’s trying to tease you.”

“Subtlety is not his strong suit,” Mab added. Troll mimed clutching a stab wound and Harry rolled his eyes before going to open the Chamber. Mab coughed and raised a brow at him.

“Oh yeah. Um, Myrtle, would you want to come with us? We’re just planning to pop down to the Chamber and look at whatever is left of the Basilisk, maybe see if there’s anything more interesting down there I missed on my first trip.”

Myrtle visibly brightened, quite literally. That turned out to be useful, since the Chamber itself didn’t seem to have any working lights. It did have a giant snake corpse, though, that seemed in far better shape than Harry expected.

“You know, this looks like the hide is… preserving itself,” Mab said, poking the snake. “Wow, that’s thick. Hmmm. Hey, Wit, was the Basilisk sapient?”

“Ehh, it could talk, but only in parseltongue and it wasn’t that bright,” Harry said, going to examine the back wall. There was something off about the dimensions of the room back there. “Certainly nowhere near as smart as Shiela. Not even as self aware as the boa constrictor I freed from the zoo once. It was mainly focused on eating and obeying Tom’s orders. I’d place it at sentient but not sapient.”

“Not a person, then?” Mab clarified.

“No, why?”

“Because it would be morally questionable to reclaim a person’s corpse for leatherworking without their pre-mortem consent,” Troll said and handed Mab a knife. “I know you, balaur Mama, and I agree with where your head’s at. Now, I’m gonna go talk to dead people.”

“Nerd!” she shouted after him as he jogged to the end of the tail where Myrtle was ineffectively punching the Basilisk. Harry tuned out their conversation. Some things were private.

Private, as opposed to Secret, like the door he’d just unlocked. Inside was a small sitting room with bookshelves on all the walls. The titles seemed to lean heavily towards potions, with a nice selection of rituals and complex multistep spells.

“Mab, we need to get Fitz in here,” Harry said. At some point she’d managed to produce tailor’s chalk and a yellow ribbon tape measure and was measuring and marking the side of the Basilisk.

“Sure, I can arrange that,” she said. “Can you figure out a way we can get in without having to come get you to hiss at the sink?”

“Oh, I can do it,” Myrtle offered. “Being dead means I can make about any sound I’ve heard, and I’ve heard the Chamber being opened a fair bit. If I can’t, we can ask Peeves, he’s much better at mimicking, and he’d probably do it just because it seems like it should be against school rules.”

“Aren’t  _ you _ worried about school rules?” Harry asked. Myrtle’s glare was ice cold water trickling down his back.

“I was murdered here and my killer graduated as Head Boy,” she said, voice cold. So cold that ice began to form on the stones under her feet. “He came back to do it again and nobody would listen to me because Myrtle is just _ too sensitive _ about her death. Oh silly Moaning Myrtle. We don’t have to, oh, close the school because someone else might  _ die _ .”

“Besides,” Mab said with a feral grin, “if you let me in, I’ll let you watch me cut this thing up. Troll, come on, this is going to need my Big knives.”

“It’ll need an acetylene torch,” Troll grumbled, but Harry smiled. His family had this.

***

Harry was glad the day was ending, since it had been a long string of uncomfortable and difficult emotions tied together with awkwardness and made bearable by the fact he actually had a family. Not that joy or love or that weird floaty feeling when Mab looked approvingly at him were any less stressful for all they were happier. It looked like he wasn’t alone in the “let this day go to where days go to die” camp, either. Many students looked cranky, tired, or otherwise Done. Not only was Fitz gone (Harry suspected Fitz would be absent for some time, although he didn’t know why, exactly), but Snape was also conspicuously absent. Moody seemed to have taken on Snape’s glaring-at-students duties, so at least that was sort of normal. Dinner was quiet and there were at least two communal groans from opposite corners when Dumbledore announced he had an announcement.

“Pompous ass,” Wrath said from beside Harry. They’d been in a bad mood since finding out there wasn’t a separate dorm for non-binary people in Gryffindor Tower. Harry shrugged but he had to agree. He knew this announcement wouldn’t impact him, since he couldn’t compete. He was actually pretty happy about that, it gave him a year of not being the one everyone stared at, unless HE chose to make himself worth staring at. Goth gave him that option too, and the understanding that the control being in  _ his _ hands was where the key to happiness lay.

He watched with the rest of the school, and the visiting schools, who had had tables added for them, as Dumbledore unveiled a fancy cup. He was slightly more interested when the cup burst into blue-white flame. Fire was usually interesting.

“Anyone wishing to submit themselves as Champion must write their name and school clearly on a slip of parchment and drop it into the Goblet. Aspiring Champions have until Dinner on Halloween to put their names forward, at which point the Goblet will return the names of the three it has judged to be most worthy of representing their schools. The Goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat and Harry caught McGonagall giving him a dirty look.

“To ensure no underage student yields to temptation, I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the entrance hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line,” Dumbledore said. “Finally, I wish to impress upon you all that this tournament is not to be entered lightly. Once a Champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, they are obligated to see the tournament through to the end. Placing your name in the Goblet constitutes a  _ binding _ magical contract, and there can be no change of heart once you become a Champion. Thus, be absolutely certain you are prepared to see this to the end, win or lose, before you place your names in the Goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all.”

“Is it just me or does he get more bloody ominous every year?” Ron asked.

“Oh it’s definitely not you,” Fred said.

“He got worse when you started actually,” George added.

“You mean when  _ I _ started,” Harry pointed out. “Because things can’t stop trying to kill me for one second, apparently. Anybody would get ominous after that.”

“Well, you’re not alone,” Wrath said. “Anybody tries to kill you, they gotta go through us and we’ll kill em right back.”

“You mean  _ you _ will,” Sparkles said grumpily. “Nergal and I have to go back this weekend. Our mums have threatened to send our sisters to find us if we don’t. Technically we also have school, even if we’re both ahead on the curriculum.”

“Yikes,” Wrath said, their face entirely serious. “I mean, under threat of your sisters, I get it entirely.”

“Well, we don’t have to say goodbye just yet,” Mab said with a soft smile. “Harry, I got the permission to go to London to sort out your finances and do some more supply shopping for you. We’ll all be using some wizard transport system thing to go to London first thing tomorrow to get your bank stuff worked out. Afterwards we can take a gander around this Diagonal place, and maybe pop up north to Camden Town to see what the good shops have.”

“Good shops?” Harry asked. Every one of his family went still. Hermione slapped her forehead.

“Harry was raised by Normies,” she said exasperatedly. “He’s never been to Camden Market. Honestly, I haven’t either, I just sigh over the catalogues.”

“We’ll fix that,” Mab said firmly. “Unfortunately I can only take Harry to London. But we will go again over winter break with you and Ron and any of your friends who want to. Now, we head out early, so get some sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _balaur Mama_  
>  Romanian (for Reasons. which I won't reveal yet because they might become spoilers... or might not. I have no actual idea if those details will make it into the story yet) meaning "Dragon Mama". ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppLNjn5WvdA fits Mab a _little_ too well.)
> 
>  _Ron’s hand coming down on his shoulder lightly, then sliding across to the other side to guide him to a table._  
>  Ron is well aware that touching This-Twitchy Harry when he isn't paying attention is Bad. He is also aware that treating him visibly-differently is Also Bad. He's **trying** by verbally drawing attention to himself first, then following with gentler versions of the same motions he'd make with Seamus or Dean or his brothers.
> 
>  _Ophiucus Antares Grey, Barrister, Doctor of Law and Master of the Bench at Gray’s Inn_  
>  So, trying to figure out what letters and titles go after a barrister's (British term: a lawyer who argues in court. a lawyer who does paperwork and contracts and inheritances etc, is a solicitor) name in England is a headache and a half as they simply don't have a standard set.  
> This was the best I could figure out. "Esquire" in the UK is not reserved solely for barristers and the Peerage anymore, but rather is a title used for any man that does not have any other title applied. strings of letters after the names of current/recent lawyers don't have explanations applied to them, and vary wildly, the only one I have figured out is QC which means they are/were members of the Queen's Council. Most seem to forgo the letters and titles entirely. But Mab understands that the way the Peerage works in Magical Society requires Every Title Possible to be attached when introducing someone you want respected but isn't Already Known.
> 
>  _maybe pop up north to Camden Town to see what the good shops have._  
>  The area between Northern Camden Town and Southern Chalk Farm in London is the Birthplace of British Goth. There are bars, shops, and theaters that cater to Goths. Camden Town is also home to the Jewish Museum of London.
> 
>  _“I mean, under threat of your sisters, I get it entirely.”_  
>  Sparkles and Nergal both have younger, 5 year old sisters. Who go to school together. Their names are Pingyang (after Princess Pingyang and her Woman's Army) and Tomyris (after Scythian Queen of the same name who slapped the Persian Empire stupid when they tried to encroach on her turf). Their best friend is Boudicca. All three are Unholy Terrors who took the playground back from the Tyrannical Empire of 10 year old school bully boys. (They know EXACTLY who they're named after and have decided to live up to their names.) Under Threat of Sisters is very much a valid Thing, here.


	14. How To Tell You're Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday night, Mab & Sev have a talk, only some of it were either of them planning on having. Ever.  
> READ THE NOTES.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY ANGST, BATMAN! This chapter slaps you in the face from the get go and does not let up til near the end. Mind the following trigger warnings and have a care for yourself, please.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS!!: Self-Harm, risky behaviors, BRIEF mentions of Abuse, Rape, and Torture, depictions of depression and anxiety and the mental litanies that accompany both. Real Talk About Heavy Shit.
> 
> Yep, there are trigger warnings. No, I have not increased the rating any, because teens deal with the shit we're covering herein all the time. I know because I remember being a teen, and MOST of my friends as well as myself dealt with some measure of all of it, though not necessarily all of it at once in one person. And teens need to hear this kind of talk. Hiding it behind Mature tags as if it wasn't absurdly common (it is. nobody is alone in this.) doesn't help anybody.
> 
> That said,  
> Kids,  
> DO NOT copy Mab's actions prior to where they actually start talking! Just DON'T. Mab is an adult and because of her own particular shitstorm (NOT covering that here) knows _exactly_ what she's doing. She's also actually Not Sane, with damned good reasons not to be. If you find yourself in the position Mab is in in this chapter, first, last, _always_ LISTEN to them, then grab an adult who knows what they're talking about (which, admittedly, can be hard to find, many adults think hiding their experiences is more helpful. it isn't. While I will always always respond to comments here, I'm not always available, so I'm not the best for emergencies, for that, go to https://www.suicidestop.com/call_a_hotline.html to find a crisis hotline for your country.)
> 
> Adults with experience,  
> I heartily recommend being open and honest about your past, recovery, lack thereof, everything. Nothing helps like having someone who Gets It to talk to. Let them find you.
> 
> LoveFest: AllroundYaoiFangirl, meuryc, lifeinwords, elizzysnow132000, Creepingcreepily, queenGemini, Fibonacci_Squid, Aegopodium, Jess_J, TattooedFanPerson, Unicorn_Cats_Rule, and 7 guest Kudoers.  
> Bonus Points!: lucidscreamer, ClockWeasel, thehawkeye, FantasyTLOU, Joey99, Aegopodium, IantoLives, willowfire, and hhhellcat.

_Lily._

_My fault._

_Too many watchers. Too many unknowns._

_Lily._

_I should know how to do this._

_Lily._

_Stupid stupid stupid!_

_My fault._

_There's a solution, I know there is, but what?_

_Stupid._

_Lily._

_You shouldn't have -- I don't deserve your forgiveness._

***

Professor Severus Snape was not at dinner. Normally, Mab would not care about a professor choosing to dine elsewhere. Professors were rarely her concern. But this professor, she needed to talk to. She did not like what she’d heard about _Snape_ from the students. She did not like how conflicting much of the information was. She did. Not. LIKE. how he had treated _her_ Wit. Or her Wit’s friends, who were therefore ALSO hers.

She did like FitzRoy. Liked how he used actions to make amends rather than empty words. Liked how he saw a problem and set himself to fixing it. First for those _he_ had hurt and then for others as well, not stopping just because his _personal_ responsibility was covered. Understood some of his difficulties, and hurt for him.

The fact that Snape and FitzRoy were the same person… Bothered her.

She _did NOT_ like the way Wit kept twitching and glancing at the empty seat he was supposed to be in. Nor that he’d been twitchy and anxious for two days and no one seemed to know why except that he kept watching the currently-missing Professor with a worried look.

Mab learned early in life that if things needed doing, it was because no one was doing them, and it was best to just do it herself. Severus Snape/FitzRoy needed a talking-to that no one was giving him. So she’d _just do it herself._

Lifting her chin and firming her lips, she excused herself from the table. _Someone_ was _going_ to explain why her boy was a mess of nerves, and she knew just who that someone was.

***

_I deserve this, don’t I?_

_Shouldn’t. Know better. Don’t need it._

_But I deserve it._

_Don’t. Need. It._

***

A house-elf named Poe gave her a relieved look even as he yanked on his sensitive ears when she asked him to show her where Professor Snape was. He led her down to the man’s private potions lab, skipping in delight and slapping himself all the way. Mab was… concerned. Winky had explained much to her, and this… Poe _loved_ the professor, and _wanted_ to follow the rules, which clearly involved _not_ showing anyone where his lab was and/or where he was, but also _wanted_ someone to find the man. Mab was certain, long before they arrived, that she was NOT going to like what she found.

She didn’t.

***

_My fault._

_You’re dead and it’s my fault._

_Too stupid to find another way out. To stupid to see one now._

_My fault._

_Always choosing the wrong thing._

_My fault._

_He’s hurt, been hurting since you left, and it’s_

_My Fault._

_Just have to go and make everything worse to save my own skin._

_Always._

**_My Fault._ **

***

The door opened silently, giving Mab a chance to just observe quietly. 

_FitzRoy?_ From what she’d heard, she was definitely not looking at the Professor, but she wasn’t sure this was Wit’s _Fitz_ in front of her, either. Severus, then.

_Severus_ looked like shit. Corpses looked healthier. Even when they’d been dead in an alleyway under trash for a few days. She’d know. She’d seen more than one in her years haunting those same alleys.

His skin was sallow and waxy, his hair limp, lips chapped, hands shaking, he had bags the size of London under eyes that stared with that feverish-hellfire- _blankness_ she knew so well at a tiny vial, no more than a quarter of an ounce, on the desk in front of him.

The work table to the left of him was still covered in the peculiar detritus of having just-finished brewing, but no finished product stood waiting to be put away, just the one vial in front of him. It wasn’t meth, she could tell by the smell, no non-magical drug anyways, despite how he stared at it like an addict who was _trying_ but not quite succeeding. She looked at the ingredients still out, and shuddered as she realized what it was.

**_Black widow venom. Pain and muscular convulsions, minimally hazardous. Bullet ant venom._ ** **_Extreme pain, cold sweats, nausea, vomiting and sometimes abnormal heart rhythms, little to no lasting effects. Platypus venom. Non-lethal, months of agony no pain-killers even make a dent in, no other damage._ **

Pain. The bastard made liquid agony and was locked in a staring contest with it. This, at least, was something she _knew_ . Even if it was a unique method for it. Most people find their hit of agony in much simpler fashions: a knife, a lighter, a piece of glass, the weapons already conveniently attached to their person in the form of nails, teeth, hands. Apparently, none of those _hurt_ quite enough. Nooo, he had to go and brew with three of the twenty most painful venoms known to man, two of which were in the top five, none of which were strictly lethal without several bites. Bloody geniuses. Stupid people were much easier to deal with. Much easier to talk around and lead back to sanity. Or the semblance thereof, anyway.

Talking wouldn’t work. Not alone. Mab grinned madly to herself. She was always best with the dramatic gestures anyways. Fabulous for getting and holding your attention. She knew he had an antidote, probably mass quantities of it, on hand. Like Wrath stockpiled bandages of every sort, disinfectants, sutures and needles and ointments. He _wasn’t_ stupid.

She squared her shoulders and strode quickly over to him, snatching the vial as he startled. When he looked up at her, rage on his face, she calmly looked him dead in the eye…

And drank.

***

  
  


A shot of whiskey in the veins, and pure, sweet agony. 

She grinned. 

And screamed.

***

_No. No, no, no, nonononoNONONONO._

“NO!”

The woman, Wit’s new mother, his sister’s successor, grinned up at him from the floor she shook on, tears running down her face as she grit her teeth on more screams, victory in her eyes.

“Cursed woman! Why did you do that? Don’t you know better than to drink random, unlabeled vials in a lab?”

“Knew what it was, you left the ingredients out.”

“WHY DID YOU DRINK IT?” He rushed to the cabinet, fumbled his ward keys, cursing as his hands made unlocking it difficult. He cursed himself, _stupid, should have had the antidote out before even starting to brew. StupidstupidSTUPID._

Finally, he got the cabinet unlocked, snatched the crate full of antidote vials, two dozen doses, and ran back to the prone form on his floor.

“If you knew what it was, WHY?”

"That, right there? How do you think Lily feels watching YOU do this, being unable to stop you?"

Severus felt like he’d been slapped. By an ice-cold tsunami. _Oh, god, Lily. I’m sorry. I’mSorryI’mSorryI’mSorry. Please, Let me fix this. PLEASE._

A bitten-off scream shook him from his thoughts. Lifting her shoulders, he brought a vial to her mouth. “The antidote. Drink it.”

She grinned up at him, teeth bloody from where she’d bitten her lip, “Do you?”

He closed his eyes, choking on grief and guilt, and shuddered. He met her stare and answered honestly, “Sometimes. When I need to function still, need to get up and teach and help my students, _yes.”_

“Make you a deal,” she whispered hoarsely, “I’ll drink it, you talk. Anything you want me to take for after-effects, I’ll take, _after_ we’re done talking.”

“Fine! Anything! Just drink the damned antidote!”

She shook through another bout of convulsions, but didn’t scream this time, didn’t even groan. Which, frankly, was terrifying. Bottled Cruciatus, much like the curse it was designed to mimic, could, _theoretically_ , be acclimated to, but it took probably hundreds of exposures to dim it’s effectiveness even the slightest. He’d been crucio’d by masters of the art dozens of times, brewed this in secret, never writing it down, never storing any, just for himself, when said masters were no longer available for him to fail and feel _alive_ , and he still was not able to do anything but scream. That four sets of convulsions in, she was capable of talking and keeping her sounds of pain to herself… He didn’t want to know how. He waited for the spasms to stop for a moment, and poured the antidote down her throat, watching carefully, to see if she needed another dose. 

She lay panting for a moment, then heaved herself up to sitting next to him on the floor, despite the all-encompassing aches he _knew_ she was experiencing. She breathed deeply, eyes closed, and turned to face him. Face and body screaming weariness, she looked up at him, meeting his eyes with a fiery intensity that made him gulp. “ _TALK.”_

He did. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t move, didn’t argue anything, or deny, just listened as words spilled from his mouth, from his soul.

He talked about guilt. Lily. Lucious. Voldemort. Potter and Black. His... Tobias. His mother. The LeStrange twins and Avery and Mulciber. 

He talked about abuse. Torture. Rape. 

He talked about despair. About **deserves.**

How he started seeking pain, which was when Lily married James and he thought that meant he deserved everything he got, because Lily Married Potter which means Potter Is Right, and then he "failed" Moldie and got crucio'd and _yes,_ it sucked, but he also felt ALIVE because dead things don't feel pain... 

At some point, he wasn’t sure when, it merged into the Litany, the stream-of-conciousness rush of thoughts that flooded him when nothing remained to dam the tide. The list of faults and wrongs. The foul names and insults he flings at himself and

> don’t-you-deserve-it-anyway?-If-Tobias-And-Sirius-and-Rabastan-and-Mulciber-and-Potter-and- _Lily-Married-Potter-which-means-Potter-was-right_...maybeyoushouldbedeadshouldn’thavebeenbornfatheralwaysdidsaysoanddon’tfathersknowbest? 

And still, Mab listened silently, never once looking away, never once refusing to acknowledge the tears and pain, never even flinching.

When the words finally ended, choking on gasps and sobs, she spoke, and he listened.

She talked about hell and surviving it. Of the contortions the human brain puts itself through to do that. 

She talked of guilt not being fair _to others_ , robbing Lily of the dignity of her choices, her agency, stealing meaning from her actions, her sacrifice to save what she loved.

She talked about choice, and how choices made by survivor-brain aren’t really _choices_ , even though logic claims they are. 

Of Just-Survive-Today and how of COURSE he wasn't thinking about what Moldie was going to do with the information on the prophecy, he was busy thinking about whether the information would get him crucio'd or if it'd help him continue breathing through tomorrow, and how that's not something to feel guilty over, because that's how you _survive_ long enough for guilt to even be an issue on the table.

But also about letting guilt dictate your actions and how that hurts the people around you. Hurts You.  
  
About the fallacy of **_deserves._ **

***

They sat in silence for several minutes. He got up and gathered potions, lining up in front of her a nerve-soother, a muscle relaxant, and a pain reliever, promising they wouldn’t make her sleep unless she _needed_ to sleep. She nodded and took them, but didn’t move to leave, turning instead to the conversation about recent actions that she had intended to have when coming down to meet him.

He closed his eyes, fighting back another flood of guilt, “I’m a spy. Everyone’s spy in everyone else’s organizations. I have to behave like a Death Eater, especially to your son, in public so that Death Eaters trust me, and Dumbledore doesn’t retract his testimony keeping me out of prison should he lose his spy with their ranks. Normally, I know everyone in the castle and how they will react to what, exactly what actions I need to take, exactly how far I _need_ to push, how far I _can_ give leeway to the Gryffindors, to Wit. Karkaroff is a Death Eater, one I haven’t seen in over a decade. Moody is an auror, one who fought in the last war and is known to be paranoid. I have no idea where Madam Maxime stands, nor how many of their students are reporting what to whom. I _can’t_ … I can’t be FitzRoy right now. Not in public. And I can’t run the risk of meeting too often in private with known Light members.”

Mab nodded. “Don’t let guilt swallow you for that. Do what you can, and don’t worry about what you can’t. What you _can_ do is let me or the very worried House Elf outside pass Wit a note from you explaining what’s going on, so he stops worrying and twitching quite so much. What you _can_ do is accompany me down to where there’s a dead basilisk Wit fought and a secret room full of books Wit thinks you need to see, so I can harvest some hide and maybe blood and venom and bones for the making of armor and weapons. Wit finds too much trouble to NOT be armed to the best of our abilities. What you _can_ do is accompany us as our requisite staff member when we go to Gringotts, the Ministry and Camden tomorrow, glaring and scowling, bitching and moaning loudly all you need to.”

Severus took a deep breath and swallowed thickly. “Yes. I can do that.”

***

The rest of the evening was spent Adamantly Not Squealing like Lockhart’s fan-girls over ancient texts and impossibly-rare potions ingredients, measuring, weighing, bottling, wrapping, reading.

Neither slept much that night. Both were entirely alright with that.


	15. Guardians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gringotts, the Ministry, and the horrors of shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's gonna be a busy week of posts from both Bairn and I (this is the third of... 5? posts this week?)   
> Also, Wit drove me (and Mab) nuts this chapter. Laugh at our misery.
> 
> LoveFest: Hufflepuff_16, Srgoetz07, Beccaworm, BluebellPetals, NovaStorm, Piece_of_trash1313, SparkleChild, ProvidenceDiscord, Bluecimmers, 6suicidalmaniac9, TricksterCrow, AdvancedApologies, integritea, and 19 guest kudoers.  
> Bonus Points!:Masqueradewitch, ClockWeasel, Aegopodium, Niyuu_Trickster_Kat, hhhellcat, willowfire, FantasyTLOU, Joey99, IantoLives, Bluecimmers, ProvidenceDiscord, redblooddeath, jasper1999x

Saturday morning was bafflingly delightful for Wit. Once he'd gotten the note from FitzRoy, he had relaxed and, with Troll reading by lamplight in the chair next to his bed, Wit had actually slept the night through. His regular insomnia and nightmares had begun to quiet with the assurance that he had family and they had the watch and, for once, the people he cared for were all okay, or going to be. Being well rested for once, he was in the proper frame of mind to appreciate the confused hyperventilating of Slytherins coated in red and gold glitter, that just would NOT come off, even with cleaning spells, and the sight of Luna cuddling a kitten-sized dragon seemingly made of suspiciously-familiar purple glitter which shed “scales” everywhere and hissed and snapped at older Ravenclaw girls, each of whom was covered in glitter and small scratches.

Fleur put a pair of crepes on his plate as he sat down and smiled warmly at him. “Your maman is still asleep in the guest wing. She had a long night, I believe. You should eat, you are too skinny.”

Wit rolled his eyes at her. “I’d call you a mother hen but the last time I called someone Mom I got adopted.” Regardless, he took a large bite of crepe. The creamy filling burst with strawberry juice and whipped cream cheese. Fleur smiled at him again, spreading her smile to Krum, who had sat on his other side and slipped a wedge of pastry onto Harry’s plate. The pastry was flaky and the filling was a cheesy custard type thing. Honestly, Harry could get used to all the new and interesting foods being served, and to having people picking things out and putting them on his plate.

“Are we all ready to go to Gringotts?” Troll asked the small contingent of Goths down the table. There was a small raised muttering. “And are we all ready to hit Camden?”

“Oh hell yeah!” Wrath said with a cheer, pumping a fist into the air.

“I want to check Sai Sai for some frilly things,” Bowie said with a grin, licking honey off his fingers. Hela slapped the back of his head and Pink tossed a napkin at his face.

“I’m just planning to browse the Stables Market,” Dru said softly. “I don’t need anything specific, but if something speaks to me I’ll take it home.”

“Good,” Troll said as Mab and a very grumpy looking Fitz joined them. Although the scowl of Snape was resting on his face, Wit could see the lighter way he moved, and the slight looseness of his left temple. “We’ll head out to Hogsmeade in the van.”

The van probably shouldn’t have fit everyone, but it did, without the tell tale accordion movement of an expanding charm. Sure, most everyone was sitting two deep in seats and Wrath and Bowie were laid across the footwell, legs tangled as they flipped through catalogs, but everyone fit. Only Wit and Fitz sat separately, although Mab put her feet up in Fitz’s lap with a smirking grin as she leaned back against Troll’s chest.

The van itself sputtered like a half-dead horse into Hogsmeade, and from there a portly wizard dressed like an old-fashioned groom, the kind for horses, apparated them to the street in front of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry tipped the man, and Wit grabbed Mab’s hand to drag her to the pub nobody looked at. Even his family, he noticed, had a bit of trouble focusing on the door, except Dru, who just made a sad face and poked the bell on the frame.

“Well this is a surprise,” Tom said. The barkeep blinked at the lot of people piling in his front door, none clearly either muggle or wizard, and made the very visible choice not to care. “Need a pass-through?”

“No thank you,” Snape said with a sneer that turned the polite phrase into an insult. “Official business with a… student. Carry on.”

Tom nodded knowingly and Wit let Snape guide them through the brick wall to Diagon Alley.

“The owl seller is down that way,” he whispered to Hela, and she grabbed Dru’s hand to wander away.

“We meet back here in three hours!” Mab shouted as the group shifted to scatter down the rows of shops. “Be here or find your own rides!”

***

Gringotts itself was the same as Harry recalled it. He mostly looked around him with open amazement, since the precision and intricacy of the operation was worth that. Mab and the Snape-Who-Was-Fitz talked with a number of goblins and presented papers and signed other ones and sometimes asked Harry to sign some. He didn’t do it unless Mab gave a nod, but everything seemed to be going well. He got a heavy cream colored folder filled with sheets of details about houses he apparently now owned.

“We’ll go over it together when we get home,” Mab promised. “Nothing will happen without you saying it’s okay, but we would like to go out to these places and see what’s still standing.”

“It’s okay, Ma, I trust you,” Wit said, and she gave that statement the solemn nod of acceptance it deserved. Trust would never be easy for either of them to give, but once given it was absolute until proven misplaced.

They also met with some people from the Ministry, who Floo’d the three of them, and Troll who’d shown up halfway through with dragon hide gloves and no shirt, despite having definitely been wearing one that morning with his heavy canvas utility kilt. People stared, since the Ministry halls were more the place for suits and formal robes, but nobody actually said anything. Lucius Malfoy certainly  _ thought _ something rather hard, while Troll smirked back at him, but Snape dragged them away in a huff grumbling. Then there was more paperwork.

“Oh for the love of little green men!” Mab swore, looking over another page of the Potter’s will. “See, he wasn’t even supposed to go to Petunia in the first place! He was supposed to go to a Sirius Black.”

“Ooh, cousin?” Troll asked, trying to snag that page and Mab slapped his hand.

“Well, you see, Mister Black was also the Potter’s Secret Keeper,” explained the ministry official. “The fact that they died at the hands of He Who Must Not Be Named means that Mister Black betrayed them, fatally. That would supersede any allowances made in the will for him.”

“Except he’s not their Secret Keeper, not as of a week before they died,” Troll said, pulling out a different paper. “It was a Mister Peter Pettigrew. Black’s inheritance from them still stands, since he couldn’t have caused their deaths.”

“Yeah, well he’s going to have to fight me for Wit,” Mab growled.

“You’ll--” Wit cut off as he realized ‘you’ll like him’ was perhaps an exaggeration. “You’ll meet him. If this is enough to overturn the whole wanted fugitive thing.”

“Ah, he still killed a street full of muggles and Peter Pettigrew,” the official said.

“No, he didn’t,” Wit insisted. “Pettigrew is an unregistered rat animagus who was living with the Weasley family as a pet for thirteen years. He returned to Tom’s service last year.”

“Tom who?”

“Tom Riddle, aka Dork Lord Moldyshorts,” Mab explained, and the official blanched. “I can’t believe people who were able to give a literal child a time travel gadget can’t send court officials back to observe what actually happened and get to the truth of the matter.”

“For that matter, pensieves are a thing,” Wit pointed out. “I have actual, vivid memories of Pettigrew revealing himself and confessing. Unfortunately, nobody bothered to believe me long enough to check.”

Snape-Who-Was-Fitz shifted uncomfortably, and leveled a glower at the room in general and Harry in specific.

“Ah, an inquest… could be opened?” the official offered hesitantly. Mab nodded sharply and turned the conversation to ratifying the unofficial gifting of several homes to disowned pureblood offspring. Nobody should have to worry their home would be taken away.

***

They met back at the entrance to Diagon Alley. Hela had a Greater Sooty Owl perched on a leather pauldron strapped to her shoulder. The Owl was preening her hair. Bowie, by contrast, had a backpack type arrangement and a Great Horned Owl that seemed to scowl at the world.

“Meet Jareth,” Bowie said, waving at the owl.

“Because Bowie,” Dru explained as Mab rolled her eyes. Wrath trotted up and took attention away from Bowie’s antics.

“I found an entire  _ street _ of posers,” Wrath said with a grin that highlighted today’s ice-colored special effect contacts and smudged red eyeliner in eerie mimicry. “It was fun. Also I got you cursed jewelry.”

“Thanks,” Mab said, and it wasn’t obvious whether or not that was sarcasm. “Where’s Sparkles and Nergal?”

“They went to get us a table at the pub,” Pink explained. He’d managed to switch every article of clothing for something else. “It’s luncheon time and we need our energy up for the wonders of Camden.”

“That’s fair,” Mab said with a nod. “I assume Sinister Bat over here is going to have to come with us for that too, so we should probably feed him too.”

“Must I?” Snape-Who-Was-Fitz sighed.

“You’re still the school chaperone,” Mab snipped back, but there was genuine affection under it. “You will simply have to deal with the grimy muggles for a day.”

***

After lunch, they hopped on the Underground and emerged in Camden Town. Mab had given Harry a map, with specific locations noted in red, strawberry scented marker.

“You are getting at least a few things for yourself, although I won’t try to stop you getting gifts for your friends. As of this morning, you have more than enough for a basic spending budget, so if you don’t know if something is worth the price, ask me and we’ll talk it out.”

“Yes, Ma,” Wit said.

At Darkwear, he found a few things for Hermione. At Tainted Prince he saw gifts for Neville and Ron. In a small shop selling undergarments he found brightly colored socks and bought a batch for Dobby. At Vera Black he saw Bohemian-Hippy headdress headband sets. Wit couldn’t decide if he needed to get Luna the one with moonstone, the one with moonfeathers, the bright teal one named star goddess or the one called "cosmic feather".

“Oh, there's one called Heaven and Earth and it's white AND peacock!” he said, showing his finds to Mab. “I'll just get all of them. That's not creepy, or anything right?”

“You just met the girl, so it’s a little creepy, honey,” she said. “And you still haven’t gotten anything for yourself. You need trousers. And shirts. Pick one.”

“Meh, anything will do,” Wit said with a shrug and pointed to the rack Mab had shoved him towards. “I need to buy Neville four shirts and three coats. And all of this for Luna. And Hermione needs this bag, and that belt, because they match. And this shirt. Oh that coat is perfect for Ron! Oh, oh, Mab, look, do they have this coat in green? Because Fitz needs it.”

“Oh my goddess, he does,” Mab agreed and grabbed the coat in question to take up to the counter to ask.

That didn’t mean she was distracted for long. She pulled him away from a selection of tailored leather as he was trying to estimate Draco’s size. Sure, he and Draco didn’t get along, but it turned out he was related to Troll, somehow, and Draco wouldn’t be caught dead here, so maybe a gift would help start mending the bridges that got burned their first three years.

“Wit, honey, we are literally building you a wardrobe from scratch,” Mab said, with patience growing thin in her voice. “Everyone else has at least a  _ few  _ clothes they like. You only have uniforms, cast offs, and jumpers from Moll. YOU NEED CLOTHES."

"But do I?” Wit asked, looking at the store that held nothing he felt the need to try on himself. “I mean, Troll never wears shirts, Dru never wears shoes, clothes seem somewhat optional."

"CLOTHES ARE NOT OPTIONAL, STOP LAUGHING, GREY, OR SO HELP ME!" Mab yelled and pointed a warning finger in Troll’s direction. It was not the index finger.

“Fine!” Wit huffed, and snatched up a pair of faux leather trousers with laced sides from the stack of women’s clothes he’d set aside for Hermione. Then he snatched a lacy poet shirt he’d considered for Troll or Neville, and the sleeveless militant coat from the rack he’d been perusing for Draco. He stormed off into the changing room and when he emerged, everyone was staring quizzically at him. “What?” he demanded.

“Trying to figure out the style here,” Dru said with a wave. “A little bit of fancy, a little bit of whimsy, a little bit of broken grunge, a little post apocalypse, a little militant, a little weaponized fashion… and none of it worn as intended.”

“So?” Wit asked, setting his jaw mulishly. “I LIKE that kind of everything-thrown-together, aggressively unexpected look. For three bloody years I’ve been a Chosen One and my life isn’t my own. This is  _ mine _ , and I’m sure as hell not going to behave  _ as intended.” _

“Oh honey,” Mab said, her lip wobbling ever so slightly. “Of course. We can help. Two outfits of each of the standard styles, and you can put them together how you like. I just… I didn’t want to take away your chance to decide this for yourself. If we didn’t know what style you wanted to end up in, we couldn’t find our gifts for you, either.”

“Oh,” Wit said, his anger deflating. “That makes sense. Okay. I like the women’s section for trousers and coats. They get more variation in cuts and I like hoods and men’s coats don’t have those for some reason. I also like the skirted pants and I like jackets, vests and fishnet that I can layer. If there’s a poofy sleeve on it, I like it, too. I like pockets and bags and rings on things to clip stuff, too.”

“Practical,” Mab said approvingly.

“Distinct from what people expect,” Wit clarified. “Things that don’t look like The Boy Who Lived ought to wear them. Genderfuck clothes, check. Dark colors, check. Obviously muggle item, fuck yeah. Four different styles and subgenres, double check. It’s like Dru said. I am not as intended. I want to dress like it.”

***

Shopping took them most of the day, and throughout the day the group shrank. Those who had school or jobs headed out as was convenient for them, Hela and Dru agreed to be the first boots (or bare feet in Dru’s case) on the ground at the most promising property Harry now owned, a farmhouse up north. That meant they had to go pack, but Hela promised to send Tahl the Owl with regular updates. Pink also had to go home, despite being independently employed. Orders for his custom clothes business came in through the internet, and while Bowie made basic electronics work even in Hogwarts, he hadn’t gotten the internet to connect reliably.

Getting back in the van was less of a physics breaking event, even with all the shopping bags. Troll and Mab still shared a seat, but that was more by choice than need. Bowie kicked his feet up on Wit’s legs, and Kothaar took a nap in the rear-most section of the van on the bed made of camping pads duct taped together. Vvornth took the wheel as the return apparition was initiated by the groomsman working out of the Leaky Cauldron. The man was then greeted by his opposite number at Hogsmeade, and the van creaked its way up the hill to the castle. It was past curfew, but Fitz had assured them that wouldn’t be an issue.

  
  
  
  
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: _vests_ : article of clothing americans know as A-Line tanks or "wife-beaters"
> 
> Red-haired Twins Do Not Approve of bullying. Pranking the deserving is one thing, stealing homework, books and absolutely necessary safety things like sweaters and shoes in Highland autumn and winter is an Entirely Different thing. Thus, as soon as they knew of the problem, they hid in an unused classroom with the Bowie Glitter to make her a guardian friend to drive off any "nargles" stealing her things.
> 
> _The pastry was flaky and the filling was a cheesy custard type thing._  
>  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banitsa
> 
> _Sinister Bat_  
>  Another phrase meaning "bastard," as in a child born out of wedlock, is Bar/Bat Sinister. flip it around and it has other meanings, meanings everyone at the school can agree with. Because Mab likes puns, mostly because of how they torment the people around her with very little effort on her part.
> 
> Camden stores:  
> https://darkwearuk.com/  
> Limited cut variations, but tons of awesome prints. Cheap goth supply.  
> https://www.taintedprince.com/store  
> https://verablack.com/product-category/for-woman/headpieces-headbands/
> 
> _Do they have this coat in green?_  
>  https://www.taintedprince.com/Store/woman/c-o-a-t-j-a-c-k-e-t/full-length-red-pattern-gothic-coat
> 
> Wit is neither trans nor nonbinary, he really just likes fucking with people's perceptions, and also, wearing what is comfortable and looks good, regardless of who the designer THINKS it's for. And hoods. WHY are men's coats ALL devoid of hoods the way women's clothes lack pockets? And why should men have to wear baggy (well, not-close-fitted) clothes? and Why should women have only flimsy, thin, non-durable clothes without pockets? (I have Issues with designers of the commonly-available fashion.)


	16. Calmly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping and the Selection of Champions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changing up the posting order a bit from last week, because I was not kidding when I said that Bodies Of Code was not the only whump in the barrel, and we're all going to need the "it's okay, we fixed it!" chapter right after that one. 
> 
> Also, I should totally be asleep right now, as I have to be at work in 5 and a half hours. Meh.
> 
> LoveFest!: PsychoTiger and 5 guest kudoers,  
> Bonus points to: FantasyTLOU, PsychoTiger, lucidscreamer, IantoLives, ClockWeasel, Joey99, redblooddeath, Aegopodium, willowfire, ProvidenceDiscord, hhhellcat, and N9438855

Sunday, Harry got to redo the shopping experience, except this time with a slightly different group, in a slightly different place. Mab, Troll, and Bowie had managed to inventory his collection overnight and breakfast was spent going over the Very Specific list of missing items he absolutely had to purchase. The list was focused on general categories, but it was made explicitly clear he had to have at least three more shirts and two bottoms, be they trousers, skirts, or anything else. He wouldn’t have the expansive choices in the smaller shops of Hogsmeade, but honestly that could be a good thing.

He ended up dragging ‘Mione, Ron, and Neville with him, and for some reason Luna ended up in the group, although he hadn’t any idea when. It wasn’t technically a Hogsmeade weekend, either, but with Snape-Who-Was-Fitz hanging behind them like a glowering spectre, nobody questioned it.

Their trip was no less busy than the day before. In fact, he noticed he was more willing to get things when his friends were with him to suggest things, and he couldn’t surprise them anyways. It was harder to get distracted by shopping for them, when they were  _ there _ to do their own. That didn’t stop him from taking some of the spending budget Mab had laid out to cover the cost of the new outfit Ron was sighing at, or picking up a funny curled quill for Luna that shifted colors like a mood ring. He was thinking about getting a wand holster for Hermione when she appeared and dragged him back to shirts and glared until he picked one to try. They had lunch at a small restaurant around the corner from the Hog’s Head, during which some of the group old enough to drink slipped off to have one at the pub. The Hogwarts students obviously weren’t allowed to drink, and Snape-Who-Was-Fitz wasn’t going to loosen up enough to drink, but that was okay.

Frowning, Wit cast the privacy charm under his breath and looked to the side of his teacher.

“I have to come up with a better name for this side of you,” he said. Ftiz broke the exterior just enough to twitch a brow. “I’ve been thinking of you as Snape-Who-Is-Fitz and that’s way too complicated. And also perilously close to the stupid slang for Tom MoldyShorts.”

Fitz snorted some of his tea and had to take a moment to finish coughing. Fortunately the privacy charm kept the other patrons of the restaurant from noticing.

“I will never, I think, get used to how you can be so… yourself, and then suddenly it’s like I’m talking to my sister again,” he said quietly. “She would have loved that name.”

“He’s tried to become some… boggart in the minds of everyone. He can take a riddikulus or two in exchange,” Wit said firmly. “But you need a name for this in-between thing you do. Something appropriately scornful, since I’m not supposed to like you, that isn’t who you were because you aren’t, and preferably short.”

“Not a fan of long names are you,  _ Boy Who Lived? _ ” Fitz said, his voice showing how much he really understood how Harry hated that name.

“Neither are you, Boy Who Never Grew The Fuck Up,” shot back Mab, sitting down with them again. “Why are we flytting at each other?”

“He needs a name for the in-between,” Wit explained, waving vaguely.

“Pan,” Hermione said, wiping her mouth neatly. “As in Peter. Mab said it herself, he’s the boy who never grew up, which is the M.O. of Peter Pan. When he must act childishly, which I still think this is, he can be Pan.”

“Not getting the reference, here,” Ron said. Neville and Luna nodded.

“Muggle children’s book,” Harry said. He’d never read it, the Dursleys hated any sort of story with magic in it. He knew about it vaguely though, they couldn’t control what was spoken of at school.

“Classic work of literature,” Hermione corrected.

“I’ll get them copies and have them sent up,” Mab said, calming Hermione. “Regardless, I like the name. All in favor of temporarily renaming the facade of the double agent formerly known as Fitz?”

“Agreed,” Fitz said solemnly. Everyone else nodded, but that was secondary and they all knew it. The faux vote was a ruse to take pressure off the person who was actually affected.

“All in favor of Pan being said temporary Name?”

“Agreed,” they all said again, this time in unison.

“Then the Ayes have it, we call him Pan for now.” Mab rummaged in her hip pouch and came out with a small charm on a string. It was cheap pot metal and already showing wear, but the shape was clearly a pixie. The dragonfly wings echoed the insectoid pose of the arms and legs, and everyone who’d been there for Lockhart’s disastrous first class winced. This was… more realistic than a muggle work ought to be. She passed the charm to Pan. “Keep this on you. Use it as a signal if you have to go deeper, to show us you’re still Pan. If you need rescue, have Poe bring it to me, and I will come get you.”

“You do not know what you’re promising,” he began and was cut off by Troll sitting heavily beside him.

“Fun spell,” he said with a shark-like grin. “All I caught was someone starting to be an idiot. If you like your skin, don’t tell Mab she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Balaur Mama knows her limits and she doesn’t make promises she can’t keep.”

“She offered to come get me if I was held prisoner by heavily armed very dangerous dark wizards and witches,” Pan said with a sigh. “No offence is meant, but the Death Eaters are more than capable of killing anyone who gets close, and they will not let me go easily.”

“Let me worry about that,” Mab said. “I’ve been paying attention, Pan. If you think I don’t assess everything that crosses my line of sight for use as a weapon, then you don’t understand me as well as I thought. There are ways to take down magic users, and I’m more than willing to punch a Death Eater. Which would be a stupidly good band name and I am pissed they got to it first. Stupid wizard Nazis.”

“That’s what I said!” Wit exclaimed, and the tension was broken.

***

Luna’s stomach was the signal to return, since it let out a loud gurgle about half an hour before dinner. Mab quickly hustled everyone to pack up what they’d bought and get back to the castle to change before dinner. Normally that sort of Victorian excess was Hela’s department, but they’d had a very long, very sweaty day creeping around stores that didn’t get much if any regular traffic, being small town affairs.

Additionally, it was Halloween, and every single Goth on the premises, Wizard or not, wanted to get done up to the nines.

Harry, Ron, and Neville got themselves mostly ready, then submitted themselves to Hermione, Mab, and Troll for help with eyeliner. Those three had enough experience with makeup to virtually replace a theater’s makeup department, and it showed. Ron left Hemione’s care with flawlessly alabaster skin, large optical illusions of cracks, and moss growing out of them. Troll sharpened Neville’s cheekbones with an artistic skull paint, deepening his eyes into something that Lavender Brown sighed was “dreamy” before she realized who it was and blushed a red that had nothing to do with rouge. Harry, on the other hand, ended up with a glamorous and femme style of curling fern shapes, purple eye shadow, and an intense burgundy lip gloss.

“Not as intended, right?” Mab asked as he checked his look in the mirror.

“Damn straight,” Harry said with a nod and a wink. “Can I borrow that violet velvet bolero? The one with the ruffled collar?”

“Pup, you can have it,” Mab said and kissed his hair. Harry swatted playfully at her and then less playfully fixed his gelled spikes. Then, he tucked a feather Hedwig had shed earlier into her braids behind her ear. She smiled warmly. “Let’s go down to dinner.”

***

Dinner was delightful, the usually festive meal intensified by the addition of feasting food from several additional cultures. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students were blended into the crowd, and unlike previous years, a number of people had shown up in some macabre finery. The presence of the Goths had spurred more experimental styles in the students, and also Professor Sprout. Kothaar and Vvornth had set up on a picnic blanket in a corner with instruments, and Pink had joined them with a smally hurdy gurdy, to sing songs of spooky things. Pink was in full femme and singing a high clear soprano.

“Are you going to do Hel on Earth?” Harry asked. Kothaar shook his head.

“No, we only do that with Hela and she’s out getting your farmhouse ready with Dru. Technically Pink  _ can  _ sing that part, but it wouldn’t be right.”

“Fair enough,” Harry agreed and wandered over to the Ravenclaw table to invite Luna to dance. She was wearing the feathered headband he had gotten for her and honestly looked pretty good.

After dinner, things quieted down for the drawing of the names. Wit might not care at all about it, but Fleur, Hugo, and Viktor were at his table and very interested, so he tried to pay attention. Honestly, he didn’t care on a personal level, being too busy being relieved it couldn’t possibly be him in danger this year to feel much interest in who it was. He felt slightly guilty about that, as it felt like the same as saying he was glad someone else would be in danger, even though he wasn’t. But it was important to his friends, and for that reason alone, was worth paying attention to.

Harry tried not to roll his eyes at the antics of too many self-important, melodramatic motherfuckers occupying the same dias, but really, did not succeed. To the quiet amusement of his family. He got his expressions back under control just in time for the goblet to flare and toss out the first name.

“The Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory!”   
The guilt was getting louder already. Whose idea was this again? Harry applauded listlessly. It felt wrong, like applauding death sentences. He was pretty sure no one agreed with him on that score, but he would never be excited and cheer someone being chosen to face a Basilisk, or whatever monsters they picked for this nonsense, for other people’s entertainment.

“From Durmstrang, Viktor Krum!”

Wit paled. His hands moved to applaud like everyone else was, but he was numb. No. He couldn’t. He did this, didn’t he? He’d said he was happy it wasn’t him this year. Of course it was never going to be the people who were cruel who’d be in danger, life doesn’t work like that. 

“For Beauxbatons, Fleur Delacour!”

His hands didn’t move. He didn’t even hear Dumbledore moving on in his speech. Three good people had just disappeared through a door, ignoring the damocles swords over their heads with smiles and good cheer. He couldn’t breathe. 

They were going to die and it was his fault.

He couldn’t breathe.

“HARRY POTTER!”

HE COULDN’T  _ BREATHE. _

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm an asshole. I'd apologize, but I'm not actually all that sorry. I stabbed myself in the feels with this, it's only fair to share the misery.
> 
> Also, yes, there ARE Othr original songs written, of which Hel on Earth is one. I have no idea when Bairn is planning to share those with the public. They are quite good.   
> EDITED TO ADD: They're going up now. I added a work to this as a series (at the beginning so it's not in the way if we do more fics in this 'verse) and am adding the songs now. -- BairnSidhe
> 
> Ron's make up: https://hgtvhome.sndimg.com/content/dam/images/hgtv/fullset/2013/3/20/1/original_Becky-Sapp-Halloween-makeup-DarkFairy-step24b_4x3.jpg.rend.hgtvcom.616.462.suffix/1400976610427.jpeg
> 
> Neville's makeup:  
> https://i.styleoholic.com/2017/09/02-gorgeous-skull-makeup-and-a-costume-with-a-tie-looks-wow.jpg
> 
> Harry's makeup: https://pbs.twimg.com/profile_images/429252572072132608/nRegU-Iu.jpeg
> 
>  _that violet velvet bolero_  
>  I'm partial to the cut of this one https://www.unitedcorsets.com/media/catalog/product/m/e/medieval-victorian-gothic-purple-velvet-stand-collar-long-layered-sleeve-shrug-bolero-front.jpg
> 
> but made out of the fabrics of this one, with the lace edging and deeper violet...  
> https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0895/5912/products/amethyst_bolero_shrug_fs_1024x1024.jpg?v=1580816005
> 
>  _songs of spooky things._  
>  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uEwde4bjysY  
> JS.


	17. Of Mad Men and Contracts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's name came out of the Goblet. There are a great many people with Things to say about that. Most of those people are Idiots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /// text. /// indicates text taken (almost) straight from the books. (there are some minor edits within, accounting for Mab and Troll's presence and This Harry Not Being _quite_ CanonHarry, but mostly, yes, in the book those people actually said exactly those things. It's appalling.)
> 
> Love Fest: LezzieKat5, biblioworm, Wynsona, Frog_that_writes, kellys_ROR, N9438855, and four guest kudoers  
> Bonus points to: redblooddeath, Joey99, lucidscreamer, Aegopodium, IantoLives, Frog_that_writes, willowfire, FantasyTLOU, Tallulah, Niyuu_Trickster_Kat, biblioworm, hhhellcat, and ClockWeasel.

Mab did NOT like Wit’s reactions to the ceremony. She was aware it was the selection for gladiator-esque death games, and she understood the danger inherent in that, probably more than the vast majority of the people in the room, with their wild applause and mad cheering. Pan did too, given the perfunctory way he clapped, without quite managing to applaud. But that didn’t explain the severity of Wit’s reaction. By the third flare, she was moving closer to him to quietly find out what was wrong. 

Of course, by the time she got there, he was already in a full-blown panic attack. She settled in next to him, trying to recall his attention and rubbing his back gently. 

The fire flared a fourth time. What? Can magical artifacts not count? Tri. Latin, Three. Three-wizards, not four.

“HARRY POTTER!”

Well, fuck. Troll was already getting up and heading angrily to the table. She’d let him handle it. Troll came from a long line of people who fucked with legalities and the cruelties thereof, on both sides, apparently; he could handle it. Right now, taking care of Wit and getting him calmed back down was far higher on Mab’s priorities than the delicate sensibilities of officious twits.

“Mister Evans.”

Oh good, Pan was here, his sonorous baritone commanding attention and jerking Wit out of his spiral. Not that it  _ calmed _ him any, but at least he was focusing outside now, a definite step up.

“Your name was the  _ fourth _ out of the  _ Tri- _ Wizard selection.” Mab appreciated how Pan emphasized the irregularities, here, but keeping her scowl aimed at him was still rather easy; any school official interrupting someone caring for a student having a panic attack deserved a glare. Even though she knew why he did it. “Your presence is required through the door behind the dias,” he raised an eyebrow and nodded sardonically at Mab, acknowledging her glare and why she gave it. “Your mother will accompany you, as you are still a minor.” A concession, one she had a feeling no one else would have given him, especially if she hadn’t insisted on being present for this. She’d be grateful. Later. She didn’t have the attention to spare for gratitude at the moment.

She nudged Wit into standing and guided him down the aisle, murmuring in his ear the steady four-count breathing exercise she’d begun teaching him over the summer when things got just a little too loud.

Down the aisle, up the steps, past the silent, suspicious, affronted authorities, right through a door to three very confused young adults.

“What eez it? Did zhey want us back out where?” Fluer asked, even as she knew they would not send Harry, let alone Mab  _ and _ Harry for anything so simple.

“No,” Mab shook her head, ushering Wit to a chair and continuing to keep the count with light pats on his back, “there’s something wrong with the Goblet. Harry’s name came out. Never mind that he didn’t even have  _ time _ to enter, he’s barely been on the grounds to sleep since the opening ceremony. Nor that he’s fourteen, not seventeen, nor that four entrants in a three-person tournament makes no sense, nor that Hogwarts’ champion was chosen first and Harry was last. They still sent us back here, from what I heard them telling Troll, they think he has to compete anyway.”

“That iz preposterous,” Viktor scoffed, “Why?”

/// There was a sound of feet behind them, and a beaming Ludo Bagman entered the room. He took Harry by the arm and dragged him forward. "Extraordinary!" he exclaimed, squeezing Harry's arm, rather too tightly. Harry lost his count and started hyperventilating again as Mab glared and pried Bagman’s hand off. He didn’t even have the good grace to look sheepish about manhandling a child like that.

"Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen… lady," he added, approaching the fireside and addressing the other three amiably, ignoring Harry and Mab’s attempts to redirect him. "May I introduce - incredible though it may seem - the fourth Triwizard champion?"

Krum's thick eyebrows contracted slightly. Cedric was still looking politely bewildered.

Fleur frowned. "But evidently zair 'as been a mistake," she said contemptuously to Bagman. "E cannot compete. 'E is too young."

"Well… it is amazing," said Bagman, continuing to beam merrily down at Harry. "But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as his name's come out of the goblet… I mean, I don't think there can be any ducking out at this stage… It's down in the rules, you're obliged… Harry will just have to do the best he --" ///

Bagman’s careless beaming and pontificating was interrupted by the rush of the other officials, as well as half of Hogwarts’ professors pushing into the room. Harry was relieved, momentarily. His hopes of rescue were quickly dashed, though. 

/// Madame Maxime towered over Dumbledore ominously. "What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?" she said imperiously. 

"I'd rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore," said Professor Karkaroff. He was wearing a steely smile, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. "Two Hogwarts champions? I don't remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions - or have I not read the rules carefully enough?"

"C'est impossible," said Madame Maxime, whose enormous hand with its many superb opals was resting upon Fleur's shoulder. "Ogwarts cannot 'ave two champions. It is most injust."

"We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore," said Karkaroff, his steely smile still in place, though his eyes were colder than ever. "Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools." ///

“Preposterous,” Snape sneered.   
  


“Damned straight it is,” Mab hissed, seething, finally getting a word in edgewise. “An under-trained fourteen year old competing against legal adults in their final year of studies improves Hogwarts’ chance of winning? How? It’s not cheating, it’s a  _ murder attempt _ . But of course you’re all too busy worrying about your own standings to care about such petty  _ semantics.” _

Dumbledore seemed unphased by the heightened emotions around him. "Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?" he asked.

"No," Harry answered, still struggling to breathe normally. Professor Snape standing behind him and glaring should not be this helpful in that endeavour.

"Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?" 

"No," he answered more firmly this time. Mab was here, Fitz was here. Troll was here, with that calculating look in his eyes. He wasn’t alone, and they knew he had nothing to do with this,  _ wanted _ nothing to do with this. Breathe. Keep Breathing.

/// "Ah, but of course 'e is lying!" cried Madame Maxime. ///

Okay, maybe Harry wasn’t done hyperventilating yet. Air wasn’t really necessary was it? Of course not, he’d be dead soon anyway.

“Oh, of  _ course,” _ Mab scoffed, “A  _ child _ in the middle of having a panic attack is  _ clearly _ lying about NOT wanting to enter himself in death games that should have gone the way of the Roman Empire when that travesty of corrupt bureaucracy died its ignominious death. For what? A thousand galleons and the entertainment of people who don’t give a shit? 5,000 pounds Sterling is three commissions, I can do that in a week with no risk to life or limb. Level with me, are you three mentally handicapped? I need to know before engaging in a battle of wits against unarmed opponents.” Harry wasn’t sure if he heard undertones of Parseltongue to her speech or if it was the lack of oxygen. Probably the lack of oxygen, as she’d never seemed to understand Shiela’s rants fussing over her.

/// "Mr. Crouch.. . Mr. Bagman," said Karkaroff, his voice unctuous once more, "you are our -er -  _ objective _ judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?"

Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with his handkerchief and looked at Mr. Crouch, who was standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face half hidden in shadow. 

"We must follow the rules,” Crouch answered curtly, “and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament."

"Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front," said Bagman, beaming and turning back to Karkaroff and Madame Maxime, as though the matter was now closed. ///

“I want to see it,” Troll interrupted, “The  _ written _ contract you insist a minor be held to, despite that he did not sign it himself nor know that he was being signed to it, without the consent of his legal guardians.”

“That’s quite unnecessary,” Crouch began grumpily.

“It is entirely necessary. I want this rule book and the contract in my hand in the next thirty seconds, or we can get the Goblins in to discuss it. Contract law is  _ not _ to be trifled with by those untrained in its intricacies, which none of you are licensed in.”

“And  _ you _ are?” Snape sneered, knowing full well where this was going.

“Yes, actually. I did the full round for both solicitor and barrister requirements, passed both tests with flying colors, I simply elected to take the solicitor option at the end of both rather than passing the bar because I prefer to do my arguing at a conference table rather than doing it in a courtroom. Or arguing over a pint or three, that is also acceptable. Besides, my  _ father _ is the barrister, and I’d prefer not to be quite so thoroughly in his shadow.”

“Ah, yes, your father, Mister Ophiucus A. Grey…” Snape started with a sneer, then paused. “Actually...I know that name. Why do I know that name?”

Mab snorted, “He would be the one who, when the ‘victim’ of the crime had turned his bit of a shiner into a publicity stunt, successfully argued in a court of law that while not strictly  _ legal,  _ it is also not technically  _ illegal _ to punch a known Nazi sympathizer in the face for glaring at a clearly Semitic five year old, no matter how wealthy said Nazi wannabe is.”

“He’s still cackling with glee about it,” Troll agreed happily, snatching the papers out of a scowling Crouch’s hand, “it’s been five years. Saved all the press reports about it and had them framed on his office wall. Give me ten minutes or so.”

“It takes up most of the wall. He’s very smug.” Mab added, handing Wit a cup of chamomile tea to help ground him and rubbing his back.

/// "I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students," said Karkaroff. He had dropped his unctuous tone and his smile now. His face wore a very ugly look indeed. "You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It's only fair, Dumbledore." ///

“So you can endanger more children?” Mab snapped. 

Karkoff growled something ugly under his breath about Muggles. 

“Bring it, Boris!” Mab retorted.

“I have half a mind to leave now!" Karkoff said to Bagman, ignoring her. 

/// "Empty threat, Karkaroff," growled a voice from near the door. "You can't leave your champion now. He's got to compete. They've all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?"

Mab gave Moody a look like ‘I don’t like you, but I can work with you’. Moody gave her one in return that offered ‘I won’t stab you if you don’t stab me’.

"Convenient?" said Karkaroff. "I'm afraid I don't understand you, Moody."

Harry could tell he was trying to sound disdainful, as though what Moody was saying was barely worth his notice, but his hands gave him away; they had balled themselves into fists.

"Don't you?" said Moody quietly. "It's very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Potter's name in that goblet knowing he'd have to compete if it came out."

"Evidently, someone 'oo wished to give 'Ogwarts two bites at ze apple!" said Madame Maxime.

“Or,” Mab said slowly and dangerously, “far more likely, someone who wants him  _ dead. _ Given this is a tournament where legal adults have died before, and he would be competing against legal adults, and I keep having to remind you he is a LITERAL CHILD.”

An extremely tense silence followed these words. Ludo Bagman, who was looking very anxious indeed, bounced nervously up and down on his feet and said, "What a thing to say!"

"We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn't discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime," said Karkaroff loudly. "Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons.”

"Imagining things, am I?" growled Moody. "Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the boy's name in that goblet..."

"Ah, what evidence is zere of zat?" said Madame Maxime, throwing up her huge hands.

"Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!" said Moody. "It would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the tournament. I'm guessing they submitted Potter's name under a fourth school, to make sure he was the only one in his category.” ///

Troll suddenly stood and went over to stare intently at the Goblet, muttering in Hebrew, several of his snake tattoos visibly writhing. His muttering switched to Sumerian as he dug into a pocket and sprinkled something over the Goblet. Harry sneezed as the ash tickled his nose.

The goblet flashed as the magics inherent in it, and added upon it fluoresced, becoming visible. A tendril of glowing magic ran from the over-sized and melodramatic drinking vessel to each of the four named champions. Troll studied the lights intently for a few tense moments before straightening.   
  
“Right,” Troll announced, “First, you are quite lucky that I am fluent in ritual magics the world over, as that is what was used to make the Goblet, roughly 1900 years ago, just a few years after the Idiots of Rome built the Colosseum, unless I am very much mistaken, which I’m not. And such a relic of Roman cruelty, really should have died with them. Pity that humans never can leave well enough alone. Second, Moody’s right, it’s been recently spelled to accept a fourth school. Thirdly, Crouch is right, Harry must compete because of the nature of the magics involved.  _ However,  _ the contract, rule book, and magic are all in agreement,  _ one _ contestant per school, which means that while he MUST compete, he cannot do so under the aegis of Hogwarts.” He paused with a significant look, waiting for them to get it.

Mab laughed, much to everyone’s confusion. Fleur and Harry suddenly remembered a conversation from a few days ago and laughed as well.

Fleur was the one who answered, still giggling, “Zhen he competes on behalf of Óðr, Visigoth Academy of Outsiders.”

“Cum Romae, incendere omnia.” Harry and Mab intoned in serious voices, before breaking into laughter again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminders: Back in Chapter 11: Of Bats, Fleur asked Mab and Troll what school they are from, and they jokingly answer “Óðr, Visigoth Academy of Outsiders.” Óðr, for the Norse, was the power of poetic inspiration and battle frenzy and is pronounced very similarly to "other" (which amuses them greatly)
> 
> ‘Cum Romae, incendere omnia.’ their joke school motto is Latin meaning "When you are in Rome, Burn everything."


	18. In Which Severus is the Least Grumpy Wizard in the Room.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The true nature of compromise: Everyone Hates Everything. Also, No Fucks are given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously, /// text /// denotes text taken straight from the book with only continuity/tense agreement edits applied.
> 
> Love Fest! Sunsetdreamer52, Thelightknightrises, Mr_Galactic_Missfit, The_narwhals_awaken, Yann237, Renuka13, and atangleofwords.
> 
> Bonus Points awarded to: IantoLives, ProvidenceDiscord, biblioworm, FantasyTLOU, Hexlorde, Alpha_Trickster_Kat, hhhellcat, Wynni, Joey99, redblooddeath, willowfire, Aegopodium, The_narwhals_awaken, and jasper1999x

The other officials did not appreciate the seemingly inappropriate laughter, though Professor Snape’s lips twitched slightly.

“There is no such school!” Bagman flibbited. He looked deeply upset by this turn of events, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d burned through all his emotions during the panic attack and now he was pleasantly numb to the absurdity of it all.

“Of course there is,” he said with a giggle. “You’ve just never heard of it, because we have a strict ‘No Dipshits’ policy.”

“Mister Potter!” Dumbledore said, scandalized. “You will apologize at once!”

“I’m sorry my rotten luck and four year running streak of mortal peril has suddenly become an issue for you,” Harry said with narrowed eyes. “I’m sorry you have no problem with railroading me into danger and then blaming me for it. It’s a crying shame, really. And I’m sorry I’ve learned more from people I met this summer than I ever learned from you. If you weren’t so focused on making this a win for _you,_ you’d see this is the truest form of compromise… nobody is happy with it, but we can all live with it.”

“Well, that is…” Crouch mumbled.

“Karkaroff, Maxime, you don’t want Hogwarts to have an unfair advantage,” Harry said. The two looked uncomfortable, but nodded. “Good, they won’t. I’m not competing for the honor of a school that’s failed to keep me safe, I’m competing for the honor of people who stood up for me, protected me and taught me. The fact YOU have decided to dismiss their brand of magic as inferior or nonexistent is only a _motivator._ I will prove to you they matter, and they’re valuable.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said solicitously, and Harry held up a hand.

“You want me to compete because every time my life is in danger, I manage to foil a plot by Tom Ridiculous. Okay, I’m competing, and Dork Lord Moldywart has a clear shot at me. I’ll take him down... _again_. Without you lifting a finger, _again._ You’re welcome.”

“Wit, Pup,” Mab said and the heartbreak on her face was obvious.

“Ma, I know Troll’s dramatic looks. So do you. What happens if I refuse? Troll?” He looked at Troll, who was glaring at the goblet like it had personally offended him. It had. “ _Ophiuchus Moses Grey_ , answer me. What happens if I refuse?”

“You die,” Troll said, dragging the words out reluctantly. “Painfully. So it would be ‘entertaining’ either way.”

“Fucking Romans,” Mab growled. “Okay, point made. I want you alive and to do that you have to compete.”

“And Crouch and Bagman will still get their _spectacle_ ,” Fleur said disdainfully, like they were something smelly the dog had brought in.

“Exactly,” Harry said. “So for the duration, I have a different school. Mab, can you call Pink and ask him to help with a formal uniform? I figure you’ll have ideas for a sports uniform, but I should wear something in class to set me apart.”

“Really?” snorted Pan. “You… set apart… how _novel._ ”

“Hey, Dumbledore wants a target. I aim to please,” Harry said and inwardly cheered as everyone sent scandalized looks at Dumbledore.

“You _will_ be a target, you realize that,” Moody said. It wasn’t a question, but it could have been if it weren’t for the way the eye roved over him.

“I’m good at that,” Harry said bluntly. “Can I trust you to be waiting on the sidelines to trap whoever takes the bait?”

Moody nodded.

Troll gathered himself, a shark-like grin spreading on his face. It was an entirely happy grin, except in that it reminded one of sharks, wolves, and other predatory species with too many teeth. A predator who smells a good hunt. It was a terrifying smile. 

Severus thought privately that it was a very _Slytherin_ smile. Karkaroff was avoiding looking at Troll. Professor Moody was looking at him with something of a cross between the scientist "I found a new and interesting specimen", the terror of "It's a poison dart frog and if it touches you, you die" and a gleeful awe of "I think I might like you." Mab smirked knowingly, Dumbledore was clearly unsure just what was walking around his school and was therefore Concerned. Madame Maxime's primary thought ran along the lines of "Oh god, a lawyer freshly presented with something to argue about. I am not drunk enough for this." Which, ironically, mirrored Barty Crouch Sr's thoughts, though his had more terror underpinning them. 

Bagman, meanwhile, was frantically trying to remember if he owed any not-wizard humans money.

“Of course,” Troll began smoothly, _reasonably,_ “as a school with a competitor in the tournament, we require all the same rights and privileges as the other schools, including our own judge on the panel and having staff of our choosing on the grounds at all times.”

Mab smiled happily (dangerously) at Dumbledore, “We will, of course, be pulling him from several of his classes to make room for our own. A student belonging to a school must naturally be taking classes _with_ that school, should they not? As well as extra training and tutoring so that he can safely compete. We will happily host students from other schools in those classes that are covered by all schools.”

Troll picked up the thread, casually examining the black paint on his nails, “Naturally, as Harry is handicapped for this competition, being much younger and smaller, as well as several years of study behind the other competitors, it is normal, with a great deal of precedent, to grant him a few _reasonable_ _accommodations_ to level the playing field, as it were.”

Professors Flitwick and McGonagall, who had come to stand at the door while Troll was examining the Goblet, were chuckling by this point, and didn’t even try to stop when Dumbledore turned to them with a shocked and hurt look.

Maxime and Karkaroff again turned to Bagman and Crouch, protesting this turn of events. It didn’t work in their favor.

“The contract is clear,” Crouch snapped, “And Mr. Grey is correct, this is the only possible, _legal_ interpretation.”

“Besides, far more instructive entertainment,” Bagman enthused, “A fourth school, one with an entirely different approach to magic? How could we refuse?”

Crouch glared at his overzealous compatriot, continuing, _“Mr. Bagman_ will work with the Other Academy representatives to determine reasonable concessions without elevating Mr. Potter above the other contestants.”

“A clarification, Mr Crouch?” Troll interrupted, “Are Hogwarts’ grounds classified as politically neutral territory for the duration of the Tournament? Which government’s laws hold sway, I mean? After all, what is legal in one government is often illegal in another. In the Berlin Olympics 1936, Adolf Hitler was not allowed to arrest Jesse Owens, nor any of the Jewish athletes who competed despite the fact that he had made it illegal for non-Aryan athletes to compete in any sport. I understand he was quite put out with the mud on his face when his premise that whites are inherently physically and mentally superior to humans of other colors was thoroughly disproven so early in his regime.”

Several of the wizards scowled, not missing the deliberate parallels being drawn by his choice of example.

“Yes, yes,” Crouch huffed. “Neutral ground for the duration until all foreign parties have departed after the closing ceremony, laws of the International Confederation of Wizards holds sway, enforced by local authority, local aurors. Britain's laws held in abeyance except where they overlap congenially with International law.”

Dumbledore re-entered the conversation, attempting to appear as a voice of reason. 

/// "How this situation arose, we do not know," said Dumbledore, speaking to everyone gathered in the room. "It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament, and the rules are clear. This, therefore, they will do...”

"Ah, but Dumbly-dorr -"

"My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it." Dumbledore waited, but Madame Maxime did not speak, she merely glared. She wasn't the only one either, Karkaroff looked livid; Bagman, however, looked rather excited.

"Well, shall we crack on, then?" he said, rubbing his hands together and smiling around the room. "Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't we? Barty, want to do the honors?"

Mr. Crouch seemed to come out of a deep reverie. "Yes," he said, "instructions. Yes . . . the first task . . ."

He moved forward into the firelight. Close up, Harry thought he looked ill. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a thin, papery look about his wrinkled skin that had not been there at the Quidditch World Cup. "The first task is designed to test your daring," he told Harry, Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor, "so we are not going to be telling you what it is.”///

“What,” Viktor started, but Harry shook his head. Better to get the nonsense out now, and deal with it later. 

///“Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard…,” Crouch continued, “very important. The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges. The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests."

Mr. Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore. "I think that's all, is it, Albus?"

"I think so," said Dumbledore, who was looking at Mr. Crouch with mild concern. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?"

"No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry," said Mr. Crouch. "It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment... I've left young Weatherby in charge...Very enthusiastic… a little overenthusiastic, if truth be told...”

"You'll come and have a drink before you go, at least?" said Dumbledore.

"Come on, Barty, I'm staying!" said Bagman brightly. "It's all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!"

"I think not, Ludo," said Crouch with a touch of his old impatience.

"Professor Karkaroff - Madame Maxime - a nightcap?" said Dumbledore.

But Madame Maxime had already put her arm around Fleur's shoulders and was leading her swiftly out of the room. Harry could hear them both talking very fast in French as they went off into the Great Hall. Karkaroff beckoned to Krum, and they, too, exited, though in silence. ///

The room freshly devoid of officials and foreigners, Severus finally allowed his amusement at the proceedings to show in a subtle twitch of his lips.

“Ms. Mabon,” he began, as House Elves sent up mugs of hot chocolate for those that remained, “What classes are you intending to pull Mr. Evans from?” 

McGonagall and Flitwick collected mugs and turned their attention to Mab, acutely interested in the subject.

“He will continue his current courses in Potions and Herbology,” Mab nodded at Pan, “as those classes require specialized facilities we do not have here of our own. He will also continue Transfiguration and Charms as those are the only magics taught in this school that we cannot teach. Divination will be moved to a weekend course under Hela, covering tarot, casting bones, and fire-meditations. History will be taken by Troll, or his grandmother, Shoshana Bloom. Honestly, I know fifteen year olds who could teach history better than Mr. Binns. Defense will be taken turn and turn about. He will, unfortunately, have to drop Care of Creatures for the moment, to make room for Bardic, Rituals, Mage Crafting, and Mage Smithing. Not to mention the ancient languages required for rituals and the runic requirement for Smithing and Divination.”

“Shoshana Bloom? Not the Shoshana Rosenberg who then married Yosef Bloom?” McGonagall looked a bit pale at the thought.

“The same,” Troll answered, looking at her with interest. “Why do you ask?”

McGonagall shook her head, “I fought in Grindelwald’s War. I would be _very_ interested in sitting in on her class.”

Mab smiled and nodded, “If you give me your schedule, I’m sure that can be arranged.”

“Forgive me,” Flitwick interrupted, “but that seems like an unhealthily hefty workload of courses.”

“It could be,” Mab allowed, “but there is quite a bit in overlap, cross-disciplinary skills that allow courses to be combined and self-directed work that can be applied to multiple courses equally. Rather than being an extra 12 hours of class per week, it would be only five or six, which can be done on one of the days of the weekend. With an extra hour on that day devoted to preparing specifically for Tournament tasks. Hard work, yes, but doable.”

Wit yawned and decided to leave the adults to arranging spaces and supplies for his classes, as well as Hogwarts students shifted to take the classes with him. Bed sounded like an excellent idea.

/// Harry glanced at Cedric, who nodded, and they left together.

The Great Hall was deserted now; the candles had burned low, giving the jagged smiles of the pumpkins an eerie, flickering quality.

"So," said Cedric, with a slight smile. "We're playing against each other again!"

"I s'pose," said Harry. He really couldn't think of anything to say. The inside of his head seemed to be in complete disarray, as though his brain had been ransacked.

"So… tell me..." said Cedric as they reached the entrance hall, which was now lit only by torches in the absence of the Goblet of Fire. "How did you get your name in?" ///

"I didn't," said Harry, staring up at him. "I didn't put it in. I was telling the truth. I wasn’t even on the grounds except to sleep and eat breakfast where everyone could see me."

Cedric nodded, unsure but willing to take him at his word. “There’s going to be people who won’t believe that. I’ll vouch for you, but I don’t know how much that will work.”

Wit nodded and watched as Cedric turned down the hall towards the dungeons before taking himself up the interminable stairs to his own bed.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: Sev is the least grumpy wizard because he is busy being distantly amused watching Mab and Troll run roughshod over the others. He's still Concerned, as he hates the tournament in the first place when it was only 17 year olds in it and now it not only has a 14 year old, but THIS 14 year old. He needs to brew more stomach soother, he can feel his ulcer roaring to life. But he has the space from the direction of everyone's focus to watch two masters at work utterly demolishing their opponents verbally, and gets to be amused by that. (He wishes he had popcorn and could get away with eating it right now. He'll have to wait till this is pensieved and popcorn while he re-watches it.)
> 
> _Moody nodded._  
>  This. This is the moment that is going to get him slapped later.
> 
> _reasonable accommodations_  
>  "Reasonable accommodations" is the legal language behind disability law, which Troll damn well knows, and is using on purpose. It is also used in competitive... well, anything, where one person is at a disadvantage through no fault of their own. (Child prodigies competing in adult chess competitions, for example, need extra allowance for adult chaperones, taller chairs so they can reach the board, and so on.)
> 
> _“Mr. Bagman will work with the Other Academy representatives..."_  
>  He's pronouncing it like he hears it, having never seen it written.
> 
> _In the Berlin Olympics 1936, Adolf Hitler was not allowed to arrest Jesse Owens,_  
>  https://time.com/4432857/hitler-hosted-olympics-1936/  
> (Just the basics, but enough to comprehend the issues)  
> https://olympics.time.com/2012/07/25/12-great-olympic-nicknames/slide/jesse-owens/?iid=sr-link7
> 
> There are other things I'm sure I could make notes about, but most of them are going to come up in later chapters, so I'm just gunna sit on those.


	19. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore continues to fail at sharing information with people who need it. It's okay, who needs Bumbledope? We got Mab, Luna, McGonagall, and even Snape. Troll is an Ass, as usual, but an epic one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LoveFest: pclauink, bookaddict19, LilithLimit0, one guest kudoer  
> Bonus Points: Wynni, biblioworm, willowfire, Joey99, FantasyTLOU, Alpha_Trickster_Kat, Aegopodium, IantoLives, redblooddeath, The_narwhals_awaken, and diabolicArbitor
> 
> As always, /// text /// came straight from the book.

Dear Sirius, 

You told me to keep you posted on what's happening at Hogwarts, so here goes - I don't know if you've heard, but the Triwizard Tournament is happening this year and somehow, I got picked as a fourth champion. I don't who put my name in the Goblet of Fire, because I didn't. The other Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory, from Hufflepuff. My friends Viktor and Fleur got picked too.

Mab and Troll got them to agree to let me compete under a fourth school, so I can get extra lessons and tutoring and probably a bunch of things that aren’t cheating,  _ technically, _ but should help me survive. Troll is good at technical, he’s the one who’s been ragging the DMLE about getting your case reopened and properly investigated.

Take care, you and Buckbeak.

~~ Ha  ~~ Wit

P.S. The owl is named Jareth, I borrowed him from Bowie because you said not to use Hedwig. He prefers lizards and frogs to mice.

Harry folded up his letter and sent it off with the Great Horned Owl, then headed to the Great Hall. He hoped by waiting to the very end of breakfast, he’d miss some of the nonsense. Perhaps that made it worse, since when he got there, Dumbledore had already announced he would in fact be competing, but left out the part about a different school and the fact Harry was only doing so because the alternative was a painful death.

He got fed up with his house-mates attempting to celebrate over his explanations, and took some toast and a napkin to try to get as far from them as he could. Finding a new place to eat was hard, though. The Hufflepuffs, who were usually very friendly, had turned remarkably cold. Cedric gave him a shrug, a sort of ‘doing my best here, mate’ thing, but Harry moved on.

A Prefect at Ravenclaw’s table shooed him away before he could sit with Luna, grumbling about people being greedy for more fame. Luna’s far away look sharpened, as if she were intently focused on something behind the Prefect’s head.

“If you really believe Harry put his own name in that cup,” she said, loud and clear and ever so painfully sharp, like a shattering crystal bell, “then you are data cropping. Dare I say, even  _ cherry picking _ your evidence!”

The Ravenclaws hissed in unison, like she’d said a terribly bad word, and the Prefect turned an unpleasant puce color. “How dare you…”

“ANYONE paying even a small bit of attention to Harry could have told you he was having a panic attack last night,” Luna continued. “That should be enough data alone to tell you he didn’t plan this. Nobody has a panic attack over something going to plan!”

Actually, Harry thought things going to plan sounded so outrageous he just might have a panic attack if it ever actually happened, but he kept his mouth shut.

“Then, if you factor in known patterns: since when has Harry ever purposely sought out glory? First year he got singled out at the awards ceremony and you could tell he wasn’t happy about it. He nearly hid behind his friends! Second year everyone was calling him names and accusing him of things, but he only went after the Basilisk when it  _ took _ his friend. Last year… did he even  _ do  _ anything last year? I mean, he was possibly being stalked by a mass murderer, but the Quibbler printed a report last month that Sirius Black was probably innocent anyways. Harry never starts these things, people do them TO him. It’s a definitive trend, and ignoring that is  _ gross negligence.” _

The Prefect looked like she was going to cry, but Luna stood up and put her arm around Harry. She guided him out of the hall and to a small table in a courtyard. She petted his head as he finished his toast, and Harry almost forgot he wasn’t in the Gazebo with Dru.

“I have to get to class now,” Luna said, her voice back to normal, well, for her. “And your family is here. Take care of him, Ma’am.”

“Of course,” Mab said, and she gave Luna the rock and water salute, right palm over left fist with a half bow. “Now, Pup, shall we begin looking at your new class schedule?”

***

Minerva had been… less than pleased with the way Albus had handled his announcement. When Luna stopped the rumbling gossip in its tracks, if only for the moment, she shared a look with each of her fellow Heads of House and waited till the pair were properly out the door before standing in the silence. “Twenty-five points to Ravenclaw for Ms. Lovegood’s insight and willingness to state what  _ should _ have been said by an authority, and  _ should  _ have been obvious when those around her lost their proverbial  _ minds. _ All students are to report to their common rooms for a series of announcements from their Heads of House. Guests, I believe your Headmasters have similar announcements for you.”

With a stern glare at the students as a whole, she began ushering her Lions up the stairs, walking behind them in a one-woman sweep as if they were ducklings to be herded.

When she got them all to their common room, she proceeded to glare until they were seated and quiet, counting heads as she did so, starting with the fourth years as her announcements affected them most. She frowned at the faces missing from her list and moved on. She was halfway through the sixth years when Hermione ran in, dragging a sulking Ron behind her. She nodded at them as they found their seats and quickly finished her counts; anyone else missing would get it from the gossip mills without issue or problematic delays.

“First, a summation of last night’s events, which  _ should _ have been announced properly by the Headmaster: Mr. Potter was entered into the tournament  _ without _ his knowledge or consent. We do not know who, how, or why, only that it was an adult as an exceptionally strong confundus charm was used to convince the Goblet of a fourth school being involved. Unfortunately, due to the nature of the magics and contracts involved, -- which have been dated back to the Roman Colosseum’s construction, which indicates what those natures are, for those informed of their history -- Mr. Potter must compete, or he will die a very painful, public death,  _ but _ cannot compete on behalf of Hogwarts.” She paused to take in the expressions of her students, they seemed to be beginning to understand the dangers.

“Toward that end, second, a fourth school has thus been created. One comprised of the...unclassifiable magic-wielders of Mr. Potter’s adoptive clan. Thirdly, they will be pulling Mr. Potter from several of his classes with us to substitute their own, including several classes not offered at Hogwarts, particularly as three of them are believed by Wizarding Britain to be lost arts.” She had to pause again, this time to wait for the startled murmurings and whispers to die down.

“The Regent Potter has graciously offered to open their classes to a small selection of students from all schools in attendance. It has been decided that the purely academic courses of History, Defence, Ancient Languages and Runes, Divinations, Rituals, and Bardic Magic will be given to three fourth years of each house, not including Mr. Potter, as well as three from each of the other schools, including their Champions, and Mr. Diggory. Mage Crafting and Mage Smithing, due to their more hazardous natures, are open to all students 4th year and above to request, but are capped at ten students maximum, First Come, First Serve basis. If you wish to take those courses, you must speak to their instructors, which are: for Mage Crafting, Regent Potter, called Mabon, for Mage Smithing, Mr. Grey, called Troll. Miss Granger, Mr. Longbottom, Mr. Ronald Weasely, I have your new schedules, your other courses will be shuffled to make time, and you have been temporarily dropped from equivalent courses, though your previous professors will still see and review your work in these ones. Professors of the Óðr Academy will have the ability to take points from Hogwarts students during their class periods. See that you behave accordingly. All Hogwarts classes are cancelled for the day while schedules are modified as your Professors need the time to accommodate the changes and update records.” 

***

Hermione flopped down onto the grass next to Harry and Mab with a huff. “Hogwarts classes are canceled for the day so professors can reshuffle their classes and students have a fair and equal chance to track you and Troll down about the creative classes. Which, incidentally, dibs, please. On both.”

/// "Have you seen Ron?" Harry interrupted.

Hermione hesitated. "Erm. . . yes. . . he was at breakfast," she said.

"Does he still think I entered myself?"

"Well. . . no, I don't think so . . . not really," said Hermione awkwardly.

"What's that supposed to mean, 'not really'?"

"Oh Harry, isn't it obvious?" Hermione said despairingly. "He's jealous!"

"Jealous?" Harry said incredulously. "Jealous of what? He wants to make a prat of himself in front of the whole school, does he?" ///

_ “Wit, _ that’s not how it is and you know it,” Hermione said patiently. “He clearly needs some individual support after a lifetime as the recipient of hand me down everything and the shortest end of the stick. Not that I  _ really  _ blame his parents, but he's the youngest boy in a very large family. Ginny got one on one attention as The Girl and the Baby. More than is healthy, really.” 

She sighed, warming up to the topic. “Bill, Charlie. and Percy got some, though Percy still had some of that struggle to be good at something They Haven't Done Yet, and decided to be Good at Rules. The twins found all the good-attention already taken and decided to be good at chaos, mayhem and disorder, figuring bad-attention is still attention. Ron can't be better at good things than the first three, and it would be very hard to be better at bad things than the twins without resorting to violence and cruelty he just doesn't have in him. Ron came up through chaos and there just isn't as much ability to give him that extra attention he craves. Then add a best friend who is Harry The Hero. And  _ yes _ , we know you don’t want that and never have. You still  _ are, _ and still get things Ron wants like fish want water, without even trying or even  _ wanting _ it. And it galls.”

She buried her face in her hands while Wit frowned at her, “In short, he  _ knows _ you didn’t do it and it’s not your fault, but he’s still hurting from being left behind…  _ again,  _ and needs time.” 

Mab hummed to herself before abruptly standing. “Right then, Troll is down by the lake, something about testing the theory that giant squids are kraken which, in some myths and lore, are related to dragons.”

Hermione looked at her in confusion, “How would he test that?”

“Troll was given the ability to speak Draconic a couple years ago by a more than 2,000 year old dragon," Mab shrugged. "Apparently, I have several people to talk to; go tell him you want a spot in his class. Maybe harass him into leaving the squid alone and setting up his classroom so he can take inventory. I don’t want to listen to him whine when he suddenly discovers last minute that he’s out of raw iron ore. Again.”

***

Troll was, indeed, attempting to talk to the squid, who mostly seemed to be teasingly playing with the two-legger rather than giving away the answer. Of course, “teasingly playing” for a Giant Squid is somewhat different than for humans. Troll was suspended thirty feet over the lake by a tentacle around his ankle when they got there. He did not seem at all bothered by this fact.

Wit sighed. “Troll? Troll! Maybe you should stop tormenting the squid?!” He shouted up at his...uncle? He’d have to check that, he was sure Mab had a flowchart somewhere of how everybody was “related.”

Troll twisted around to look at him and waved him off, “Nah! This’ just playin’. I was being carried off by dragons to look at cool shiny stuff at six, this is nothing, there’s water below me, not rocks!”

Hermione rolled her eyes and tried another tactic, “I want a spot in your class, Troll! And Mab says you need to do inventory and set up your workshop!”

Troll cheered over having a fifth student in less than an hour, but quickly pouted. “But I’m playing!”

“I swear it’s like dealing with teenage boys,” Hermione muttered, ignoring Wit’s offended look. “Play Later! Work Now, or you’ll be out of materials when you need them and have no time to wait for an order to arrive!”

“Awww,” Troll pouted, but leaned up to pat the tentacle. The squid tossed him in the air and caught him about the middle while Troll whooped in glee before setting him upright on the land and giving his (quite soaked) fedora back and patting him on the head.

As they ushered their lunatic back towards the castle and his job, they passed Viktor, who shook himself out of his awed and bemused stare at the part of the lake Troll had been playing with the squid in long enough to request a place in Troll’s class.

Draco and Goyle surprised both by politely requesting places as well when they approached the front entrance steps, followed by Cedric as he rushed by.

In the Entrance Hall, Bulstrode was striding straight for them, leaving a wake behind her as people rushed to get out of the tall girl’s way, but paused to stand behind a first year Slytherin who was cowering away from a ranting Ravenclaw third year, staring down intimidatingly with her arms crossed until the Ravenclaw stuttered to a stop and went away. Finch-Fletchley came up and snagged the tenth spot, stuttering a bit and cringing as, at Troll’s prompting, he admitted his father was a judge in the same criminal courts Barrister Grey enjoyed tormenting.

As Finch-Fletchley fled the awkwardness, Troll hmm’d thoughtfully, looking at where Bulstrode was helping the first year pick up his dropped books. “Be right back,” he muttered, heading in that direction.

A few moments of talking later, he shook Bulstrode’s hand and came back grinning. “Guess I’ve got  _ eleven _ students to prepare for. Oh, remind me to tell Pan to award a random ten more points to Slytherin for Ms. Bulstrode. Were I less generous, she’d have sacrificed her chance to learn something to help someone else.”

***

OUTTAKE: 1 SEVVY AND THE SNAKES.

No one was really quite sure how Professor Snape beat them all back to the common room from breakfast when he’d still been drinking his coffee when they left, but only the first years were particularly surprised by it. He managed it at least twice a year, when the situation was rather urgent. And sometimes when it was not, probably just to keep his Snakes on their toes. 

Draco... _ reclined _ (there was no other word for it) laconically in a leather chair near the fireplace as the rest of the House filed in. "So what did Potter do this time, Professor?" he asked, examining his pristine fingernails.

"Actually," Professor Snape drawled with a raised eyebrow, "for once in his life, Potter didn't do anything, and there is substantial proof of it. Why the Headmaster, in his  _ infinite wisdom _ neglected to announce to all and sundry that his Golden Boy was innocent of that which he was accused of, I haven't the faintest idea. I can only assume there is some…  _ dissent _ between them."

The professor turned to face the entire common room. Finding all accounted for in their usual relaxed, distracted and disinterested poses, which in the way of Slytherins, meant they were paying attention, he continued. “But that is neither here nor there. Slytherins, we are being granted an  _ opportunity.” _ Well aware that such a word would secure any wandering attentions completely on him, he straightened and raised a challenging eyebrow.

“Due to the nature of the contracts involved, Potter must compete, regardless of innocence or complicity, but cannot compete on behalf of any school that already had a champion named. Toward that end, a fourth school has been created. A school constituted of the… unclassifiable Not-Muggles Potter has found himself. They will be pulling him from most of his classes here to substitute their own, including several classes not offered at any registered school, particularly as many of them are believed by most to be  _ lost arts _ .” He waited while they parsed what he was saying, several of them sitting up and abandoning all pretences of distraction. When the quiet whispering began, he continued.

“The Regent Potter has  _ graciously _ offered to open their classes to a small selection of students from all schools currently represented on these grounds. The primarily academic courses of History, Defence, Ancient Languages, Runes, Divinations,  _ Ritual _ Magic, and  _ Bardic _ Magic will be given to three fourth years of each house,  _ not _ including Potter, as well as Mr. Diggory and three from each of the other schools, including their Champions. Mage  _ Craft _ ing and Mage  _ Smith _ ing, due to their more hazardous natures, are open to all students 4th year and above to  _ request, _ but are limited firmly to ten students maximum, and granted seats on a  _ strict _ First Come, First Serve basis. If you wish to  _ take _ those courses, you must speak to their instructors, which are: for Mage Crafting, Regent Potter, called Mabon, for Mage Smithing, Mr. Grey, called Troll. And yes, they do have  _ masteries _ in those lost fields, and a few others besides. The opportunity presented is not  _ lightly _ overlooked.” 

He swept his gaze over his Snakes, ensuring that the extra messages in his words had been received and understood by the people he needed.

“Miss Parkinson, Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Bulstrode, join me in my office when we’re finished to obtain your new schedules. Your other courses will be  _ rearranged  _ to make time, and you have been temporarily dropped from equivalent courses, though your previous professors shall receive and review your work in these ones. Professors of the Óðr Academy  _ will _ have the ability to take points from Hogwarts students during their class periods. See that you comport yourselves in the same manner I always  _ expect  _ of you." 

He waited for their nods before continuing far more brusquely, "All Hogwarts classes are cancelled for the day while schedules are modified as your Professors need the time to accommodate the changes and update records. Óðr classes are as scheduled. I’m sure that our ... _ representatives _ will keep us all  _ updated _ on the quality of their continuing education. In the interim, use your time  _ wisely. _ ”

He turned and strode from the room, robes flaring dramatically behind him. The three he named rose (except for Milicent, who simply stood up) and followed him.

***

"So, Uncle Sev, my prodigal cousin has a mastery in a Lost Art?"

Severus snorted at Draco's continued  _ lack  _ of subtlety. "Your prodigal  _ cousin _ has  _ multiple _ Masteries in Lost Arts, as well as Masteries in the dying art of Ritual Magic, in Law, Defence, and Ancient Languages. With the exceptions of Law and Defence, and aspects of Ritual Magic exclusive to  _ particular lineages, _ he taught  _ himself.  _ It would  _ behoove _ all three of you to learn  _ everything _ you can from your  _ 24 year old _ cousin.”

Draco had lost his smirk and nodded solemnly. He gathered his schedule and took himself off. He had classes to sign up for and a class to get to in an hour and change. And a letter to write.

Mother would certainly want to hear of her newly-discovered cousin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _even cherry picking your evidence!”_  
>  Someone said "bad host" and all the hobbits hissed. Luna knows how to stab where it hurts, for Ravenclaws, that's their Research Integrity. (Cherry Picking is listed as "scientific misconduct.")
> 
> _she gave Luna the rock and water salute,_  
>  Rock And Water is a UK-based anti-violence program. This salute is their way of showing deep respect and also not touching people who may not be okay with touching, or putting said people in a place of social obligation to touch.
> 
> https://www.rockandwaterprogram.com/?action=main.content&article_nID=141&navID=41
> 
> _"particularly as three of them are believed by Wizarding Britain to be lost arts.”_  
>  Bardic, Crafting, Smithing. Rituals is still known and occasionally used, but dying out outside of so-called-dark Old Families, so some think it's a Lost Art too, but it isn't.
> 
> _“The Regent Potter"_  
>  Nobody's been told her last name, and I have Headcanons on that. We'll get to it in *checks* six chapters. theoretically.  
> Regent Potter is a correct form of address that disregards personal names and uses Title instead.
> 
> OUT TAKE!  
> I know, it's a lot of information already presented by McG, but I really wanted to show how Sev deals with the Slytherins and his spying duties and getting the right thing done, even if he has to pretend to less-honorable reasons for it. And it was really fun figuring out how he'd say the same things, but give completely different information, understood in completely different ways by different people standing in the same room at the same time.
> 
> Any time a word is in italics within Snape Quotes, he's emphasizing it for the express purpose of imparting a greater depth, even to second-and-third messages, of information than with words alone, while still Not Saying anything...suspicious.
> 
> For example:  
>  _"And yes, they do have **masteries"**_  
>  Emphasizing this word tells them that the goths in question aren't muggles or squibs-as-we-understand-them, as to have a Mastery of a field of Magical Studies requires one to first **have** magic. While also stating "they know their shit, you'd do well to learn from them."
> 
> _in the same manner I always **expect** of you."_  
> means "expectation does not equal action, but it damn well better this time because Outsiders Are Watching."
> 
> _exclusive to **particular lineages** ,"_  
> builds up the "better pay attention" by putting focus on the concept of "this asshole is CONNECTED, do not piss him off." You'll see what that means over the course of the next... ten-ish chapters. Starting next chapter, actually.
> 
> _"as well as Masteries in "_  
>  He also has degrees in theater and Light and Sound Engineering, but those are Muggle Things, and not something Sev would ever mention to Slytherins.


	20. In Which Worldviews are Battered.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That time the History Trivia usually found in the end-notes invaded the plot and made itself at home. Bombs are dropped, peeps be shook, and everyone learns something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LoveFest: Darkchanteuse, and 6 guest kudoers  
> Bonus points: biblioworm, FantasyTLOU, Wynni, redblooddeath, Alpha_Trickster_Kat, willowfire, ClockWeasel, IantoLives, Joey99, Aegopodium, The_narwhals_awaken, hhhellcat, lightdefender, diabolicArbitor
> 
> Millicent went and developed a Personality (yeah, she's being adopted. whether she thinks she wants it or not)  
> Draco is having a ...trying day.
> 
> (I really hate the necessity of Intro bits, both in text and in real life. awkward bits of unnecessary details that are actually vaguely necessary.)

Wit filed quietly into his new history class, looking around interestedly. Twenty desks in five columns of four, maps on all the walls, artifacts carefully arranged, the professor’s desk in the front-center of the room with a globe on it. All in all, a strange mixture of what a muggle would expect of a history classroom and what was normal for Hogwarts. He was unsurprised to see Professor McGonagall talking quietly with Savta Bloom in the back corner, though he did wonder how Savta had gotten up to Hogwarts so quickly. The Blooms had Very Strong Opinions about frivolous usage of magic, it was why their lines had never used wands. The scattering of other professors lingering in the room was more surprising, but understandable. His new classmates all sat quietly, with none of the usual chatter. For Hogwarts students, he knew it was on account of... well, defence professor history. New entities in positions of authority required caution. He had no idea why the Durmstrag and Beauxbatons students were equally reserved and watchful.

The small, whirling clock on the Professor’s desk chimed a couple of bars of a haunting minor-key song Wit felt he should know, and Professor Bloom moved to the front of the room and cleared her throat. Wit had only met her twice over the summer, seeing her standing in front of a desk underscored the resemblance to Professor McGonagall, though her eyes sparkled with mischief and humor, and she wore a soft-grey suit reminiscent of the 40s. Her lips twitched in a soft smile, “Good morning, class. I believe introductions are in order. We’ll start to my left and go around the room. Please state the name you would prefer me to call you, your age, and the school you are affiliated with.”

Wit turned in his seat so he could see as people introduced themselves.

“I’m Susan Bones, 14, Hogwarts, House Hufflepuff.” Straight to the point.

“Hannah, 14, Hufflepuff,” shyly and barely audible. 

“Justin Finch-Fletchley,” calm and assertive, “14, Hufflepuff.”

“Sven Nygaard,” was in the back row and looked like Thor, barely fitting in the desk, “17, Durmstrang.”

Next to him was “Denica Draganov, Deni. I ehm 16 und from Durmstrang.”

“Mill, 15, Slytherin.” Wit thought it might actually be the first time he had ever heard Bulstrode speak, her voice wasn’t as low as he thought it would be.

“Pansy,” simpering as ever, “14, Slytherin” sat in front of Milli.

“Draco Malfoy, 14, Slytherin,” smirking in the front row.

Wit smiled at Savta, reminding himself to call her Professor Bloom in class, as he turned to face the other way so he could see the other half of the class. “Wit, 14, Othr and Gryffindor.”

“Uhm, Ron, 14, Gryffindor?” was behind him, and entirely unsure what to do with… everything.

“Fleur De LaCour, 18, Beauxbatons.” Ron blushed at the soft but assertive voice behind him.

“Viktor, 17, Durmstrang.” Apparently, Durmstrang opted to take up nearly the entire back row.

“Hugo, 17 next week, Beauxbatons.” He was twitchy again, Wit made a mental note to find out what he could do to alleviate that.

“Gabrielle De LaCour, 13, Beauxbatons,” sat next to her sister and in front of Hugo.

“N-Neville Longbottom, 14, Hogwarts Gryffindor.”

“Hermione, I’m 15, and a Gryffindor,” on Wit’s left.

On the other side of Hermione was “Padma, 14, Ravenclaw.”

Then “Su Li, 14, Ravenclaw,” and “Tony Goldstein, 14, Ravenclaw,” with the back left corner taken up by “Cedric, 17, Hufflepuff.”

Professor Bloom’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I don’t believe in segregation or in rivalry amongst peers, so starting next class, you will have assigned seating to break up the patterns of colors I’m seeing and better ensure  _ mingling _ happens. Be prepared to check the desks for your names. To avoid that in your other classes, I recommend mingling and intermixing of your own accord from the get go, as  _ none _ of the Óðr professors approve of  _ this, _ ” she finished, waving vaguely to indicate their chosen seating.

Her smile was quite suddenly back as she stood from where she had been leaning against her desk. “Now then, I’m Professor Shoshana Bloom, Welcome to History. This course will not be like your previous History classes. Specifically, we will not be covering exclusively  _ magical _ history.” 

There was a small assortment of gasps and scoffs and Professor Bloom raised an eyebrow as she carried on. 

“Because, quite simply, for most of history, magical and non-magical events have had a profound impact on each other. The most obvious example, which even Muggle students your age are aware of, being the Inquisition and Salem Witch Trials, and on the wizarding side, the Statute of Secrecy. Who can tell me what the Spanish Inquisition and it’s...shorter lived sister movement here in Britain were about?”

She took a sip from her tea cup and waited while most hands in the room went up. “If your answer includes the word ‘witches’, put your hand down, you are wrong.” Four hands remained. Wit was unsurprised on glancing over his shoulder that his hand was joined by Hermione’s and Gold- _ Tony’s _ . Justin’s hand was a bit more of a surprise, though not as much as it could be.

Professor Bloom smiled slightly. “Justin?”

“Racism, Professor.”   
  
“Racism, the belief that some people  _ are better,  _ and deserve comfort, wealth, power, and others are inferior and deserve oppression and persecution, even  _ elimination, _ based entirely on  _ ancestry and genetic traits. _ Correct. And in specific? Tony?”

“Jews, ma’am.”

“Jews. Followed by Muslims, then by anyone not sufficiently  _ Catholic _ enough. Over centuries, the Jewish community in Spain had flourished and grown in numbers, wealth and influence, despite fairly constant anti-Semitism. In the last decade of the 14th century, Jews faced increased persecution and were pressured to convert to Christianity. Faced with the choice between baptism and death, the number of nominal converts, Jews who had professed conversion but continued to practice their faith in secret, to the Christian faith soon became very great. In addition, these faux-converts were perceived to be an even greater threat to the social order than those who had rejected forced conversion. In 1469, nominal converts were denounced as a danger to the existence of Christian Spain, and within a decade the Church issued a bull authorizing the Catholic Monarchs to name inquisitors who would address the issue. 

“Spanish sovereigns, however, were not turning over to the church the struggle for “unity”. On the contrary, they sought to use the Inquisition to support their absolute and centralizing regime and most especially to increase royal power in Aragon. The first Spanish inquisitors, operating in Seville, proved so severe that Pope Sixtus IV attempted to intervene. But the Spanish crown now had in its possession a weapon too precious to give up and the efforts of the pope to limit the powers of the Inquisition were without avail. Despite the Church’s involvement, and even central role in it, it was only ever about power, money, and control.”

Draco’s hand went up, confusion writ large on his face, and Professor Bloom nodded to him. “How was it about money, Professor?”

She smiled wryly, “What happens to the money, lands and properties of people executed by the Crown for treason, Draco? It goes to the Crown. All of it, though when the charge is heresy, it goes to the Church, and in those days, the higher ranks of Church authority was populated exclusively by nobility. False Conversion was counted as both heresy and treason, the wealth split between the Bishops, who were aristocracy anyway, and the Crown. So how did it go from Jews to Witches? Hermione?”

“They needed an excuse, Professor, something they could say the forced converts had done that no one would contest was evil. Living your life and making profits through exemplary work isn’t evil, and nobody sane would claim otherwise. So they claimed anyone but Catholics were actually demon-worshippers, and tortured people into confessing to having made deals with demons in order to acquire that wealth and influence, and called that witchcraft.”

Professor Bloom nodded grimly, “Indeed. In fact, the muggle iconography of witches, a stereotype that persisted even through to the 1970s, has nothing to do with actual witches and wizards, despite some similarity in trappings. The pieces that make up the ‘witch’ of lore come from two sources: racism and misogyny. You’ll note that  _ wizards _ are never portrayed as evil, though sorcerors may be, only  _ witches.” _

Milicent hmmed loudly in agreement. When Wit glanced back she was nodding, her eyes narrowing in thought.

“Misogyny granted the stereotype its pointed hat, very large cauldron, and broomstick,” Professor Bloom said, “Which, although useful, everyday items at the time, were common symbols of beer brewers. Many beer brewers were independently financially stable women who often never married, because they had no need to. The spindle and spinning wheel also became lesser known symbols of witchcraft, because spinning was a second occupation that led to independent women who needed no men. Incidentally, that’s where the term "spinsters" comes from. Note the derision the term is most commonly said with. Racism donated the swarthy skin tone and large, often hooked nose as none too subtle allegories for the Jews and Rroma, in that era called Gypsies. By claiming those groups were indisputably evil, the governments could take power and wealth in large swaths and reallocate it to themselves. All of that is well-known  _ Muggle _ history, which directly resulted in the Statute of Secrecy,  _ Magical  _ history. And that is far from the only time this has happened.”

Professor Bloom looked around at the gobsmacked faces and laughed lightly. “The Statute of Secrecy wasn’t officially established until 1692. There’s  _ 4,992 years _ of recorded history available to us when magical and non-magical societies interacted freely, and history reflects that. Think, five whole millenia of  _ people _ talking to one another, watching each other’s choices and letting it inform their own, because that’s what people  _ do. _ And that’s just what people  _ wrote down.  _ Of course, because people will continue to be people even when you tell them not to, 1692 was not the last time the histories collided.”

Draco looked like someone had replaced the floor under his desk with an Elder God’s nose, and he wasn’t in the minority. Sven in the back corner spoke up while the other students were still gathering their wits, “Professor? What was zhe last time zhe histories interacted?”

“Technically? Right now.” She looked around at the class, even the professors in the back were stunned silent. “History filters down, class. Gellert Grindelwald could not have risen to power without the world-wide  _ Muggle  _ conflict of 1914 through 1918 called World War One and its political and economic aftermath. Furthermore, the entire premise of his war, being that some should rule over those who are different and have different views and goals  _ for the greater good, _ was a  _ Muggle _ concept that dictated  _ Muggle  _ history in the form of political philosophy called Imperialism, popular throughout European governments in the 1800s. Which directly led to several of the bloodiest civil wars in the last 400 years. Furthermore, his war coincided with the SECOND Muggle World War, and he used that to his advantage, often handing muggleborn witches, wizards and children to the Muggle Nazi scientists for experimentation and execution, which led to  _ them _ learning how to find half-blood and pure-blood witches and wizards on their own, placing the vast majority of magical deaths during that time directly at his feet. I know because my husband and I helped evacuate  _ anyone _ targeted by the Nazi regime: Jews and Rroma, homosexuals and transgendered, disabled  _ and Magical.  _ World War Two, in turn, directly influenced The Dark Lord who calls himself Voldemort. And  _ his _ followers are still around, attacking sports events and sexually assaulting innocent people.”

Half the class gasped at the name. Wit rolled his eyes, but gave Savta a grin to show her he  _ was _ paying attention.

“In short, you have inherited a conflict that began before your parents were born, out of evils that have existed since people began, and not one bit of it can be understood let alone  _ stopped _ without acknowledging the fact that  _ Nothing Happens In Isolation. _ We don’t live in a vacuum. History is  _ messy _ , class. Everything touches everything else, and you may as well try to untangle spaghetti as isolate timelines. Sure it can be done, but the results have been tampered with beyond reasonable consumption.”

“Should we be taking notes?” Susan Bones asked belatedly, before realizing she hadn’t put her hand up. “Sorry. This is… more than Binns covers.”

“I should hope so,” Professor Bloom said, grumbled, under her breath. Then louder, “if taking notes is helpful for you to understand what we discuss, then please do. If, however, the act of taking notes supplants the act of  _ thinking _ about what is discussed… do not. I’d rather you be able to give me a clear summary of the order of events and how they impacted each other and the present, than to read off a list of dates. Hi _ story _ … it’s in the name. Stories. That’s all it is, and ultimately, all we are as well. If you can retell the story accurately, don’t worry about the fiddly bits unless you like them. We will be covering both sets of events again in more detail later; today is about getting you ready to handle history in a different way than you have before. Homework…will pretty much always be 'read the next chapter and be prepared to discuss it in the next class.' The exception to this rule is one essay, due in January, and one due in June, both should be not less than 12 feet long, and not more than 15 feet long. If you habitually go over, I recommend you learn to edit and prioritize, as you will lose a full letter for every foot over. The subject matter may be chosen for yourselves, but should demonstrate your understanding of the material, depth of research, your ability to analyze and synthesize how the histories of different societies impact one another, and an ability to think outside the box."

She pushed off where she’d been leaning on her desk and clapped her hands.

“Speaking of which, the last bit of class will be an opportunity to circle back around to something I brought up at the beginning of class. Everyone please stand up and find someone in the class you have not spoken to in the last… oh, 72 hours. Introduce yourself if you haven’t met, and share one historical fact, moment, or story you find relevant to your own life. You may find it surprising how interesting your fellow students actually are, and it will make avoiding a scene over segregation in your next class much easier.”

Harry froze for a moment, trying to figure out who he hadn’t spoken to that he would be willing to talk to about history. Then a shadow fell over his desk.

“I’m Mill,” Milicent said. The emphasis she put on it made him mentally revise that. Mill was the one speaking to him, and if he didn’t want a talking to from Mab he’d use it. “King Christina of Sweden dressed in men’s clothing and held the title of King, despite identifying as a woman.”

“When did she reign?”

“1644 to 1654.”

“Oh, well then, that makes a lot of sense, considering what I know of that era’s social norms and politics. It might be enough to get  _ me _ to stop wearing women’s pants and coats if I had to put up with it.”

“Don’t know how you stand women’s pants,” Mill said casually. “They’re too tight and there’s no pockets anywhere.”

Wit shrugged. “It’s embarrassing, but I’m struggling to find something personally relevant. I know fun stuff, but nothing is jumping out.”

“What’s your favorite then?” Mill asked.

“Mary Shelley kept her husband’s petrified heart in her desk, wrapped in a poem he wrote about his death.”

“Wicked!” Mill said with a delighted grin. “Who’s she?”

“Mab has all her books, I’ll get you a copy.” Wit stood up because the clock on the desk was showing it was time to switch classes. “Basically she was a writer who wrote really amazing Goth literature and feminist literature, and she was the coolest person with the most interesting life ever. She learned to spell her name from her mother’s gravestone and her dad may have had her husband’s first wife murdered.”

“Coooooool,” Mill said. It was. It was cool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Savta_ : Hebrew, Grandma. (Yes, she met Wit all of once and demanded he call her grandma like her Troll does.)
> 
> _small, whirling clock_  
>  https://www.scullyandscully.com/home-decor/clocks/mantel-desk-clocks/astrolabium-nickel-clock-ii-piano-black-finish.axd  
> with a hammer-and-bell chime-and-music-box system in the open base at the bottom. plays the first thirty seconds of https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iHdcb4bStC8 
> 
> _soft-grey suit reminiscent of the 40s._  
>  https://images.app.goo.gl/DxR2zC4UA2oLSd7e9
> 
> _“Racism, the belief that some people are better, and deserve comfort, wealth, power, and others are inferior and deserve oppression and persecution, even elimination, based entirely on ancestry and genetic traits._  
>  pulling no punches is also Family Tradition. Troll comes by it naturally.  
> No, she's not using the dictionary definition, specifically because using "ancestry" rather than "racial or ethnic" makes it clearer for her limited-experience students. "Race" and "ethnicity" are relatively new concepts when compared to the incredibly ancient evil of Othering groups of people for the purpose of discrimination. Ancestry is almost the same age, as concepts go, whereas skin tone based prejudice is a babe in arms. Ultimately, it's the same thing, just with newer definitions on specificity.
> 
> _“Jews, ma’am.”_  
>  Anthony Goldstein, who shall henceforth be known as Tony, IS Jewish. Even the pureblood wizarding world isolated Jews aren't isolated enough to Not Know This.
> 
> _"Over centuries, the Jewish community in Spain...pope to limit the powers of the Inquisition were without avail."_  
>  section is, admitedly, semi-plagiarized and summed up for non-Muggle-History-Savvy students from https://www.britannica.com/topic/Spanish-Inquisition
> 
> _Elder God’s nose,_  
>  "Cthulhu doesn't even have a nose!"
> 
> Of course It doesn't, it's under Draco's desk.
> 
> _political philosophy called Imperialism,_  
>  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Imperialism
> 
> Paying specific attention to the text under Orientalism: "That cultural differentiation was especially noticeable in the books and paintings of early Oriental studies, the European examinations of the Orient, which misrepresented the East as irrational and backward, the opposite of the rational and progressive West.[30][33] Defining the East as a negative vision of the Western world, as its inferior, not only increased the sense-of-self of the West, but also was a way of ordering the East, and making it known to the West, so that it could be dominated and controlled.[34][35] Therefore, Orientalism was the ideological justification of early Western imperialism—a body of knowledge and ideas that rationalized social, cultural, political, and economic control of other, non-white peoples."
> 
> Imperialism, and specifically Orientalism directly resulted in the Boxer Rebellion, The Bakumatsu and Boshin War, and indirectly, The Bolshevik Revolution.  
> (The Bakumatsu / Boshin War being the war Rouroni Kenshin references and flashes back to, and, aside from the more folklore-based aspects and fictional characters, the show's depiction of history is accurate. only soldier deaths during the less than one year of war are enumerated, at 8,200 with a further 5,000 wounded. That does not count the riots and terrorist actions of both sides before, during, and after actual warfare, nor the deaths resulting from war-created plagues or from wound complications after the fact.)
> 
> _attacking sports events and sexually assaulting innocent people.”_  
>  Regardless of if the mid-air pantsing was considered sexual assault in canon, it counts for Shoshana.  
> Naturally. Shoshana is not TERFRowling. (Rowling's views on sexual assault in general are nauseating.)
> 
> _History… it’s in the name. Stories. That’s all it is, and ultimately, all we are as well._  
>  Props go to the BairnMama who Bairn was directly quoting here.
> 
> _King Christina of Sweden_  
>  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christina,_Queen_of_Sweden  
> (Yes, we are _deeply_ unimpressed with Wikipedia still using "Queen" when her preferred title is CLEARLY STATED. By Wikipedia, no less.)
> 
> _Mary Shelly_  
>  Yeeeah, All true.


	21. Tournament Studies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wit deals with lunatic family/teachers, Draco writes a letter, Everything Is Weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LoveFest: Wolfsmouse, liliumluv, rogue_scholar07, Zephiera, and 6 guest kudoers  
> Bonus Points Commentors: FantasyTLOU, pclauink, willowfire, IantoLives, ClockWeasel, Joey99, Gbadvocate09, redblooddeath, Alpha_Trickster_Kat, hhhellcat, biblioworm, Wynni, integritea, The_narwhals_awaken, and Aegopodium.
> 
> Warning: Accidental Flytting Occurs. (Srsly, Bairn had to break them up because they wouldn't stop but didn't even realize they were doing it...)

Apparently, Pink had been playing with the concept of gothic wizarding garments since meeting the Weasleys, and had walked away from Diagon and Camden with Ideas, as no sooner had Harry walked out of History than Hedwig returned from delivering Mab’s request to Pink with a package. He paused at the bathroom to open it, intending to change immediately and smiled.

Pink’s tendency towards extravagant opulence without quite making it to being gaudy held out. His new robe was a heavy wool-silk blend brocade with a subtle pattern in storm grey and charcoal, patterned after Georgian era coats, but far more closely fitting, with the deep, nearly-excessive box pleats in the back and gussets at every joint to increase mobility, ankle length with a high collar and over-large pockets. The collar, cuffs, lapels and hem, all a good six inches wide, were a flat black silk, embroidered with silver. The back had the Worldwalker album Tree & Oroboros, complete with runes, in the same silver, the details lined in gold, with colored crystals inset among the metallic threads adding splashes of color to Jormungandr and the leaves. Both sides had three black leather straps with buckles from waist to halfway up his ribs to adjust the fit, adding an almost-random bit of modern Goth to the garment. It was heavy, warm, elegant, and didn’t restrict his movement at all. He loved it immensely.

Better still, it was stylistically opposite of the red-stitched black skinny bondage jeans and knee-high combat boots he was wearing, without quite being the right style to match exactly with the red late-Victorian waistcoat he wore over a fishnet shirt. He shoved his Hogwarts robe in his bag, glanced at himself in the mirror and grinned. If he ran, he'd still make the quidditch pitch in time for his tournament study session with Mab and Troll. Worth it.

Mab was grinning when he arrived, half out of breath but still grinning like a loon, and turned to show off his new robe. Mab gave him and his new garb a good once-over, nodding approvingly at the aesthetic choices and checking the fit and his range of motion in it. 

Troll smirked, “While I’m glad you arrived in the spirit of this particular study period, I’m not liking that you’re out of breath from it.”

“Huh?” Wit asked, intelligently between huffs.

Mab ruffled his hair, “He means running. First and best method for How To Not Die is and will always be evasion. Especially for us scrawny types. Until we know specifics, that means running: speed, endurance, agility.”

“But you,” Troll cut in, “are already out of breath. Sit down, we’ll talk for a bit about plans, plans in which no one loses their  _ het,  _ even. Then some stretches and more running.”

Wit flopped limply to the ground, keeping his groan at the sound of “more running” firmly internal. Mab might be vicious enough to make him run across the grass of the pitch in heels if he whined too much. Actually, that might be on the docket for later anyway, Mab was a firm believer in being able to defend yourself in  _ anything _ you might wear at any time. While he did not  _ plan _ to include heels in his goal to screw expectations, Mab was unlikely to rule it out. “Just in case” was a commonly uttered phrase.

Rolling over onto his back, Wit looked up at Troll, still smiling down at him from under the brim of his hat, which two hours ago was a fedora -- fedora, not trilby, the little faux-fedoras being the only hat Troll would never wear because of its abuse by NiceGuy DudeBros -- but was now a glorious, feathered, monstrosity of a pirate hat. “Hyu mentioned Plens?” he asked, in his best approximation of the Jaegers of Girl Genius.

“Hy deed, indeed!” Troll sat, happily. "First, running. A great deal of running, even. Sprints here on the pitch for speed, cross country around the lake for endurance, and Mab is working with Hagrid to set up a training obstacle course for agility. We will keep with the running until we are sure you can outrun and out-dodge any opponent on any terrain. Then we'll work on spell casting while running and dodging. Then on more advanced spells."

"Toward that end… you need tutors," Mab added. "We don't cast like most of your opponents and enemies do and will. What works against ours might not work against theirs, and vice versa."

"Since we can't teach what we don't use, you need an appropriate teacher who does. In my talks with Madame Bones about him, I got my hands on Sirius Black's records, which, interestingly, mentions his incarceration, but not his arrest nor trial, but does mention his employment history as a particularly effective Auror. Mme. Bones was most unhappy about that oversight, and is attempting to track down the missing records."

Wit snorted. "She won't find them, I'm afraid. He was never tried."

Troll raised an eyebrow. "Interesting. All the more reason for this, then. Invite him, please. You need a tutor, and I need a meeting with my client. Ballpoint and notebook are here."

Wit took the pen and notebook from Troll, but asked “He’s still wanted, though, how?”

Troll grinned, “Neutral ground, remember? If they arrested him, he’d have to be tried in the international courts, not simply thrown back into Azkaban or tried in the Wizengamot, and  _ especially _ without his arrest and trial records, the ICW would acquit him immediately. They don’t want that, so they’ll try to arrest him leaving the grounds or after the tournament closes, by that time, we’ll have his name cleared.”

“And if we’re prevented, which we are avoiding happening by working directly with Madam Bones,” Mab shrugged, ”there’s plenty of ways to get him off the grounds and hidden away again before the Tournament closing ceremony finishes.”

Wit smiled and turned to write the letter, suggesting The Shack as a meeting point, but being more careful than usual in obscuring identifying details and meanings, addressing the letter to Padfoot.

Mab and Troll carried on with a side conversation about the Defence class and what subjects within that category needed to be covered. Around the third time he offhandedly mentioned something “Remus said,” he looked up to find Mab looking at him curiously. “Why isn’t he still teaching defence, then?” she asked.

“He’s a werewolf,” Wit shrugged, “word got out and parents were … unhappy about a ‘dangerous animal’ on the staff.”

Mab looked affronted. “Well that is  _ not on. _ Write him too, he can help with the basic defence class.”

“And when you’re done,” Troll drawled, “you can practice your running by  _ running _ them up to the owlery.”

Wit groaned but went back to his letter writing. Remus and Sirius coming back was something to look forward to. Even if he did have to run stairs.

***

Monday, November 1st, Anno Domini 2004

Draco Lucius Malfoy, Hogwarts, Slytherin

To Lady Narcissa Malfoy nee Black, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

Dear Mother,

I’m sure you are aware that this past week was always bound to be interesting, with the representative delegations of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons arriving for the Tournament. It most certainly has been; ironically, none of the interesting events have had anything to do with Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and very little to do with the Tournament at all.

It seems that, over the summer, Potter found a group of persons that defies categorization. They are human, but not Wizards nor Muggles, and if they  _ are _ Squibs, they are entirely unlike every definition of such I have ever heard, and unlike every Squib I have ever encountered. This group arrived at the same time as Durmstrang and Beauxbatons did, apparently for the sole purpose of publicly lambasting the Old Coot for his actions over the last few years. (It was truly delightful to watch, the Bumbler’s actions on display netting scandalized looks all around.) During which debacle, one of them declared herself Potter’s parent, and Potter called her “Ma” ...to which Lady Magic  _ very loudly _ agreed. So apparently Potter has a new family. None of whom make any sense whatsoever.

If that wasn’t enough “interesting” for one week, Potter’s name came out of the Goblet…  _ fourth.  _ Apparently, he had nothing to do with it, and they have sufficient proof of that that even my Godfather agrees. And the rules stipulate that he has to compete regardless, but can’t compete for Hogwarts, so his family, nonsensical beings that they are, just  _ made up _ a new school on the spot, and then  _ offered spaces _ in their classes to students of the three real schools. Uncle Sev put Parkinson, Bulstrode and I forward to take as many of these classes as possible to learn about these people.

And the “interesting” keeps coming: I am to take History, Defence, Divinations, Ancient Languages, Runes,  _ Ritual Magic, Bardic Magic, and Mage Smithing. _ (Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, and Herbology will be the same classes I’ve always had.) Goyle and Zabini will be taking  _ Mage Crafting. _ Crafting and Smithing only allow for a total of ten students each, including Potter. Getting into even one was a challenge.

Furthermore, these “unclassifiables,” as Uncle Sev calls them, all go by truly absurd names that are most definitely not their real names. “Troll,” a ruffian usually devoid of a shirt, covered in tattoos and barbaric piercings, I have discovered is actually named Ophiuchus Moses Grey, his father being Ophiuchus Antares Grey, and his mother from an as yet unspecified  _ lineage _ that deliberately eschewed wand use. Clearly insane, I think. And this ruffian, un-wanded possible-cousin, has multiple Masteries in more than one Lost Art, Law, Defence, and Ritual Magics… and is in his early twenties.

I needed to pause in writing to attend my first class of this new school, I apologize for seeming a bit disjointed here. 

Mother, I fear I am in need of some guidance. Our first class was History. I have just come from it, in fact, and am quite...at a loss. The insistence on teaching  _ Muggle _ History alongside Magical History is an affront to all our principles, but the reasons given for it… are surprisingly compelling. Muggles, it seems, have access to five thousand years of recorded history prior to the Statute of Secrecy during which time Magicals interacted freely with Muggles. Further, that which we know as the Witch Hunts, the given reason for the Statute, on the muggle end were never actually about witches in the first place. Rather were a deliberate manipulation by the muggle governments, accusing other muggles of Black Magics, defined as contracts with Abyssals, as an excuse to execute them and seize their money and properties in a bid for power and control. Even after the Statute, and  _ actual _ witches and wizards disappearing from their populations, the Hunts continued for another two hundred years, knowing full well the people they executed were merely  _ other Muggles. _

I’d take this as further evidence of Wizarding superiority and right to rule… except that  _ that _ is also a Muggle philosophy hundreds of years old that reached its peak in the 1800s. And which Grindelwald borrowed in his failed rise to power to excuse his efforts. Efforts that included gifting mudbloods to his Muggle contemporary, a lunatic named Hitler that lead Muggle Germany, for that madman’s version of Unspeakables to experiment with, leading to Hitler obtaining enough information to find and successfully capture half and pureblooded wizards to continue his experiments on, attempting to give his loyal, muggle soldiers magic as a weapon in his own war to dominate the globe. The professor of the class, Madame Shoshana Bloom nee Rosenberg, was directly involved in evacuating magicals targeted by the muggle madman.

I have no idea what to do with any of this, Mother, and deeply long for your advice.

Love, as always,

Draco Malfoy

P.S. M’me Bloom is Troll’s maternal grandmother, apparently.

P.P.S. Potter’s new mother dresses fit to make Aunt Bellatrix jealous, judging from the portraits at home, terrifies Professor Moody without actually doing anything, but is Hufflepuff enough to adopt nearly everything that moves. I am… exceedingly confused.

***

Wit passed Malfoy on his way up to the owlery, and paused at the top of the final flight of stairs to gasp for breath. He thought he was in shape, but apparently, not enough for nearly ten flights of stairs, plus the sprint across the grounds.

“Really, Potter?” came a snide voice behind him, “You run all the way up here just to die at the top and block the doorway with your carcass? What’s so urgent?”

“Nothing,” Wit panted, “just had orders to run. From the quidditch pitch. Be prepared for running in defence class. Apparently, being able to dodge, evade, and escape literally anything in any circumstances is the surest defence against dying, and to keep us alive long enough to successfully fight back… we’re going to run. A lot. Over every type of ground, in every pair of shoes we own, any type of outfit we might conceivably wear ever. When they’re sure we can handle running and dodging, we’ll cover casting  _ while _ running and dodging. Pretty sure everyone will hate everything in existence soon.”

“Merlin. I’d best change before lunch then,” Draco answered, looking him up and down. “Perhaps you should, too, designer silk like you’re wearing does not mix well with mud. Not that I’d expect you to know that with the rags you usually wear.”

“I would,” he agreed, moving out of the door and looking for Jareth and Hedwig, “but Mab might burn those rags if I show up in them, then you’d be stuck seeing my scrawny carcass in the nude. That would be unpleasant.”

“She  _ should _ burn them, but yes,  _ not _ searing the eyes of those of us who have the misfortune to be in the general vicinity of you at the time would be preferred. I’d like to still be able to see when you bite the dust five minutes into the first task.”

“I will endeavor not to die till then,” Wit drawled, and he sounded exactly like Troll. “I would hate to disappoint. Which I will if I don’t get back soon.”

He dragged himself up the final flight to where his family’s owls were roosting in the upper levels, cursing under his breath with words that would make Mab glow with pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _patterned after Georgian era coats,_  
>  Georgian Era men's fashion featured brocade coats with broad, high collars, wrist cuffs going most of the way up to the elbow, wide pocket flaps, and back box pleats to create a lot of flare. It was the bling of the era: Conspicuous Consumption in Excess (WAY more expensive than currently) Fabric Everywhere, Completely Unnecessary buttons everywhere (usually metal, often actual silver), heavy embroidery ("metallic" embroidery was done with ACTUAL gold and silver wire made super-fine) Think Edward Rutledge's coat in 1776. (Worse, his was _white_ in a city with minimal paving on the roads, no plumbing, actual livestock and horses everywhere, and no dry cleaners. And it was fucking imported silk brocade. THIS Asshole.) Similar reproductions were used for https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WqIcQR578gg
> 
> _gussets at every joint to increase mobility,_  
>  Normally, a gusset is a triangular or rhomboid piece used to get a greater range of motion that has been mostly outdated by the use of curves when cutting fabric (a piece inserted in the armpit of a tunic or chemise, for example) in this case, it is more similar to a box-pleat that has been secured on both ends, increasing space and give in the joints while maintaining a fitted look.
> 
> _plans in which no one loses their het, even._  
>  http://www.girlgeniusonline.com/comic.php?date=20031017  
> 2003\. They ABSOLUTELY all read Girl Genius, and entirely agree with this definition of what constitutes a "bad plan." Wit's Hanukkah present to Troll is absolutely going to be Maxim's Hat: http://www.girlgeniusonline.com/comic.php?date=20050808
> 
> _but was now a glorious, feathered, monstrosity of a pirate hat._  
>  It'd be a tri-corner, point forwards, but the back brim is not folded up like the front thirds are. It has three ostritch feathers, rooster feathers and pheasant feathers in a bizarre, half-cocked mishmash of Prosperity Rodomontade.  
> rodomontade: noun  
> vainglorious boasting or bragging


	22. Tutoring With Slytherins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Othr Professors are generally a terrifying species. Several people figure out that not all things are as they seem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a major Events chapter, but an important one for moving things along. Enjoy the downtime. Shit will hit the fan again soon enough.
> 
> LoveFest: braincellsoptional, Trickster32, Cas_grippedyoutight, Danceurlifeaway2, RaiAkashi, and 7 guest kudoers.  
> Bonus Points: pclauink, FantasyTLOU, redblooddeath, Wynni, Joey99, biblioworm, IantoLives, MsSpacey, Aegopodium, Trickster32, hhhellcat, jasper1999x

After a hurried lunch and an even more hurried explanation to Ron, Neville and Hermione, Wit rushed the four of them through changing into clothes and shoes they’d be comfortable running in. Relatively, at least. No one had direct equivalents to muggle gym clothes, but they did at least have something they could reasonably move in and not worry about dirt and sweat.

As they filed into Ancient Languages, Wit noticed Malfoy had done the same with the Slytherins. At least the blonde was no longer daft enough to ignore good advice just because of who he heard it from. All seven of them were getting looks from the other thirteen students. Wit shrugged it off and split from Ron and Hermione, intent on making good on Professor Bloom’s advice to avoid segregation. Hermione dashed off to join Padma and Justin in a disturbingly enthusiastic discussion about British Imperialism of the 1800s and how it may have affected Wizarding history. There was a potentially dangerous amount of hand waving involved, but Padma had an interesting perspective on the subject due to Brittain’s control of India. He made a mental note to make sure Professor Bloom prodded her into talking about it in class when they got to the subject.

Ron slid over to Tony and awkwardly began a conversation about chess and Neville joined Susan and Hannah in being awkwardly quiet together. Wit looked around the room. Eventually he decided on the path of Least Awkward and joined Viktor and Sven, debating whether to talk about languages, as Viktor clearly knew several, or quidditch, which they could all agree on. And argue over, as the case may be.

Mab breezed into the room seconds before class was due to start. She looked around, grinned, and began talking before anyone could even get seated. “You are all going to either love me or hate me before too long. I don’t assign essays or homework. I  _ do _ expect you to be responsible for managing your own affairs, doing your own practices, and ensuring you are prepared for the next class on your own. Keeping up or falling behind is entirely on you. None of you are toddlers to need your hand held every step of the way through learning. You want to learn?  _ Learn.” _

After a whirlwind of information about several languages, etymology, the functions and working bits and parts of languages, and how languages, especially the older ones, interact with magic, she sent them off with a challenge to research some of the listed half-dozen languages and “pick the one that feels right to you.”

Wit felt like his brain had done the equivalent to eating too much potatoes and gravy at supper and then set itself on fire. He was immensely glad their next class was an active one rather than a text-based one, his brain needed a break.

Kothaar met them on the quidditch pitch, with his axe resting on his shoulder and a vicious grin. He gave a terrifying speech about the differences between dueling and defence; announced that there would “be no glory and honor in this class, only a genuine attempt at keeping you all from dying ignominious deaths;” disarmed Cedric, Fleur and Viktor in rapid succession before they could get a spell off; mentioned that were it a real combat situation, the first thing he’d do would be to  _ break their wands; _ and proceeded to chase them all around the pitch screaming. By the end of an hour, Wit’s brain felt less fried, but also, nope, definitely hating existence. And with only fifteen minutes to clean up and get to Rituals, they’d have to  _ run some more. _ Wit kinda wanted to cry a little. Hermione was fucking  _ bouncing _ the whole way, turning around to jog backwards so she could talk to people. Which was  _ entirely _ unfair. Also, possibly morally repugnant.

When they arrived at Rituals to find two sections of curtains at the front of the room, with Troll standing theatrically between them, wolf-grin firmly in place, Wit couldn’t stop the groan from escaping.

Behind the curtains were two different rituals from two different cultures in two different languages. Troll sent them to go take a look, and when they had all been behind both curtains (Hermione running back and forth for a bit), asked for the difference. There was none, they did the same damned thing, specifically, agricultural fertility rites intended for Imbolc. Just, one from Sumeria and one from Wales. Because he’s an ass. Also to point out the importance of History and Ancient Languages and how you can do one piece of homework for three different classes. But mostly because He’s An Ass.

When the clock ticked over, Wit gladly escaped. He had fifteen whole minutes to breathe before his hour and a half scheduled tutoring session before dinner, and he wasn’t about to waste even one of them.

(Or, rather, he was  _ determined _ to waste every. Single. Minute. All a matter of your point of view.)

***

When Uncle Sev corralled him and Greg, having assigned them to tutor “students who needed their expertise”, he didn’t specify which students. Draco thought it was probably because Sev expected him to protest. A week ago, he would have, hell, he was considering it now. But Sev didn’t give them a chance to protest, simply shoved them into the room, announced that Draco would be responsible for “tutoring Mr.’s Weasley, Longbottom, and Evans in potions, Evans in etiquette and Lordship, Mr. Goyle is in charge of penmanship and essay writing,” and then vanished.

“Ass,” Draco grumbled as he looked around. Longbottom was reading aloud, somewhat laboriously, from their potions text to the Weasel, who was prodding a dictaquill. Granger was buried up to her eyebrows in what appeared to be Muggle texts with titles like  _ ”Teaching Students with Severe Disabilities” _ and  _ “Adapting Early Childhood Curricula for Children with Disabilities and Special Needs,”  _ alternating between feverishly writing some kind of report and correcting Potter’s grip on his wand, which was in his LEFT hand for some reason.

“What?” Draco spluttered, while Greg scratched his head in equal confusion.

Granger looked up, and sighed, “Oh. He didn’t explain anything, did he?”

“No, Granger. No, he did not.”

Another sigh, “Might as well use our first names, we’ll be associating for a while, whether we like it or not. The short version, then: Ron has a genetic disorder that makes reading and writing incredibly difficult, he understands and remembers better if someone says the words out loud. Neville’s got permanent brain damage from his great uncle’s attempts to ‘scare’ evidence of magic out of him, and reading out loud helps his brain work around it and helps his magic heal the damage some. Professor Dumbledore left Harry with his Muggle Aunt and Uncle, who were abusive, so he’s having to relearn how to do things with his hands all over again, now that the bone damage in his right hand has been fixed, and now that we’re aware that he’s actually  _ left  _ handed. On top of that, being abandoned on a muggle doorstep doesn’t lend well to knowing pureblood etiquette or how to manage estates and what’s expected of a lord. Particularly not when no one  _ told him _ about anything but the trust vault, and that only just before first year. I don’t know any of that either, and can’t seem to find any books on the subject in the library, which you would  _ think _ would have them, but no. Not a single book on etiquette in the entire school. Unquestionably dark magic involving human sacrifice, yes, basic instructions on  _ how to not piss people off? _ Why would we have such a thing in a school?” Granger rolled her eyes and sighed in frustration. “Anyway, I’m working on collating and writing a report on all the data Muggles have about Ron’s condition, which the Healers didn’t even know existed, so they can attempt to find ways to fix it or minimize its effects. Muggles have quite a lot of information on it, and a great many other disorders besides, so I’m rather swamped.”

Draco blinked and looked at Greg, who simply blinked back. “Well then.” Clearly, he was going to need to write to his mother. Again.

***

Greg watched. It’s just what Greg does. Letting people think him stupid only made it easier for him to stand back and observe and draw his own conclusions. Helping people think him stupid was honestly kind of fun.

Gra-Hermione’s list of things the Gryffs were dealing with without anybody actually telling them  _ how _ to deal with it because they just  _ assumed _ they knew reinforced his desire to keep people thinking he was dumb if that’s what the  _ obviously _ smart people had to put up with. It also clarified why Professor Snape called them in, since Dumbledore’s lot clearly weren’t about to fix the problem.

He cringed internally as Po-Harry grabbed a quill to take notes on what Draco was talking about, held it  _ (wrong) _ in his right hand, switched to his left as if remembering he could use that hand, fumbled to hold it correctly, but much too tightly, and  _ didn’t change the angle of the paper to adjust for it. _ No wonder no one could read his chicken scratch.

Greg sighed. Okay, fine,  _ this _ group of travesties could know he wasn’t stupid.

Only way to fix the way Po- _ Harry _ was mauling that poor parchment.

“Draco,” he sighed,  _ “stop. _ He needs to learn how to write  _ correctly _ first.”

Draco glanced down at Harry’s hands and notes, winced, and ceded the floor to the expert.

Greg gently took the quill from Harry’s hand, sighed over its tattered condition, and dumped it in the bin. He got out a fresh quill and parchment and one of his poems and placed them in front of Harry. “First, turn the parchment at a 45 degree angle so it lines up with the hand you’re using, so, for you, the top goes to the right. Second, hold the quill  _ lightly.  _ It’s a feather, not a stick. Turn  _ it _ at an angle so the nib meets the paper at a 45 degree angle. Finally, press the nib  _ lightly _ to the parchment and  _ pull, _ never push, it across the page, down and to the left, not up and to the right. Copy this until you feel comfortable with writing correctly.”

Harry nodded and got started, sitting up in surprise at how much easier it was, then really settled in to work. Greg nodded and went back to reading over Gra- _ Hermione’s _ shoulder. It seemed she was aggregating information at the moment, preparatory to outlining and then writing that report she mentioned. It was… interesting. He must have moved too close, though, because she looked up, smiled, and then handed him one of her books. 

“Here,” she offered, “this one’s a good primer on the basics, what sorts of disorders there are and how to identify them, and I’m not using it at the moment.”

He nodded and settled in to read. 

“Goyle?”   
  
Greg looked up, putting his finger where he left off in the introductory chapter. Harry was looking at him inquisitively.

“Greg,” he said, “If we’re to use your first names, you should use ours.”

“Greg, then,” Harry nodded. “Is this your work? I mean, a creation of your own mind as opposed to writing down something someone else said or wrote?”

“Yes,” Greg said slowly, “Why?”

“Would it be alright if I showed it to someone? Kothaar and Vvornth, our Bardic professors, would really like to see it, I think.”

"I guess," Greg answered slowly, "all the professors already read my work. But I really don't like people…" he searched for a word that felt right.

"Knowing. Yeah, I get that," Harry nodded. "I wasn't allowed to do better than my cousin in school growing up. The first time I got a better report card then him, I was in my cupboard for a week without meals, and they told everyone I was cheating. So I've been kind of... basing my work on how everyone else is doing."

_ "Wit."  _ Hermione's sharp voice came, making it clear she'd been paying attention, no matter what else she was doing. "That's as bad as Ron insisting he's stupid just because his brain refuses to see ink on paper as anything other than ink on paper, even though he beat a chess set made by  _ McGonagall _ at eleven. If you don't stop it, right now,  _ I'll tell Mab. _ And maybe Troll. Probably Pan."

Harry winced. "I make no promises, but I'll try?"

"Do or do not," Hermione retorted.

“Yes, Master Yoda,” he intoned, and Greg gave him a searching look, trying to figure out where that nickname came from.

“I’ll pay for the tutoring in introductions to the saga that reference came from,” Harry said. Greg nodded, and went back to his book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _”Teaching Students with Severe Disabilities” and “Adapting Early Childhood Curricula for Children with Disabilities and Special Needs,”_   
> Actual text books for Special Ed teachers in training.
> 
> _Finally, press the nib lightly to the parchment and pull, never push, it across the page, down and to the left, not up and to the right._
> 
> This is for Lefties. Righties doing calligraphy, either with a quill or a steel or glass nib, need to pull down and to the right. Pushing the nib causes it to catch on the fibers of whatever you're writing on, makes a mess and takes more effort than is really necessary. Similarly, Righties would tilt their paper so the top points to the left, bottom left corner pointing at your chest. Pencils don't care, and some ballpoints don't either, but some ballpoints do, and all fountain and dip pens do. Your hands and spine will thank you for tilting your paper.
> 
> _“I’ll pay for the tutoring in introductions to the saga that reference came from,”_
> 
> Why, Wit, what a Slytherin thing to say! Slytherins Honor the Trade. This is a particularly Slytherin way of offering to share something. It helps make Draco and Greg feel at home and bonds them as a group. So will Star Wars.
> 
> Hermione has Very Strong Feelings about things, OKAY? Okay. Glad we cleared that up.


	23. In Which Names May Be Misleading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narcissa is not Narcissistic, Troll has an excuse to expound on Family History.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly dialogue for the next couple chapters, I'm not sorry, because you get to hear all about the epic tales of side characters.
> 
> LoveFest: aeroBenevolence and 5 guest kudoers  
> Bonus Points: Wynni, Alpha_Trickster_Kat, IantoLives, redblooddeath, FantasyTLOU, willowfire, thebitterbeast, biblioworm, lightdefender, ClockWeasel, Joey99, Trickster32, The_narwhals_awaken, Danceurlifeaway2, Aegopodium, jasper1999x

Draco was running from Potions class, intent on eating a hurried lunch before writing his mother. Again. Honestly, it’d be nice if the strange and confusing would  _ slow down _ a bit. Save his writing materials some small amount at least. Also his sanity, keeping some of that would be nice. Turning the corner, he ran directly into…

“Mother!”

“Draco." Narcissa greeted him with a firm look, "Why are you running indoors?”

Draco winced, “I wanted to hurry through luncheon so I could write you before my Runes class.”

“Again? You wrote to me yesterday.”

“Yes, again," Draco sighed. "I needed to ask you to send our copies of etiquette manuals. It seems a few students were never properly educated on it, and when they tried to educate themselves, the Gryffindors told them not to worry about it, that it didn’t  _ matter _ and the library didn’t have a single book on the subject.”

Narcissa's eyes widened slightly in surprise. “What? I remember there being a great many there.”

Draco shook his head, “No. Not one. Granger was...excessively frustrated that she could find details on human sacrifice magic, but nothing on etiquette. When she asked Madam Pince, she got a scandalized look and Granger retracted the question. I went and checked, there really aren’t  _ any.” _

Narcissa frowned and looked up at her old friend, who had come around the corner as well. “Severus? Do you know why there are no longer any etiquette books in the library?”

Severus frowned. “What? There’s an entire case full in the...Oh.”

Narcissa raised an eyebrow, “Severus?”

He cringed at the memory, “Roughly eleven years ago, the heirs to the Zonko business set up a prank in the library, one that  _ should _ not have harmed the books, had it gone off appropriately. Unfortunately, a first year named  _ Nymphadora _ tripped over the structures for it, and three whole cases of books were doused in magic-resistant ink. Now that I think of it, the bookcase that had all the etiquette, traditions, and flower language books was the center one of the three. Dumbledore has insisted ever since then that the budget just can’t cover replacing the books, any more than it can cover buying new,  _ safer _ brooms for the first years’ lessons. Madam Pince was probably scandalized by the memory of what happened to the books. Incidentally, that event would be why Zonko products are banned on school grounds.”

Narcissa took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I will meet with Madam Pince to arrange to fund the replacement of the books myself before I leave this evening. Perhaps a fund to purchase a basic primer for each student not raised within Wizarding Britain as well, since they start so far behind. That will take some time to arrange, however, so, yes, Draco, I will send you your copies. Now, I have heard about new teachers and a cousin, and would like very much to meet them, if they have the time.”

Draco nodded, they should, Runes was being taught by one of the Vikings and his cousin, who looked oddly like his mother did in some old photographs. Mab and Troll should be available, though Professor Bloom did not stay on school grounds.

***

Finding Mab and Troll turned out to be more of a production than expected. They wound up needing to ask Harry, who was far too amused as he led them up to the second level, to a door labeled “Workshop B”. Looking down the hall, there was also “Workshop 1” and “Workshop Purple”. There was no “Workshop A” or “Workshop 2”. Draco shook his head at the nonsensical nature of his new teachers and turned back to the workshop they were in.

Workshop B seemed to be dedicated to… well, a lot. There were bolts of fabric, spools of wire, cases upon cases of beads, vats, dress forms, and machines of all sorts, tables with smooth wood surfaces, tables with soft cork tops, flat white tables with strange lamps attached to magnifying lenses… Mab and Troll were indeed in Workshop B, leaning over a table in the back with large sheets of paper covered in drawings, math, diagrams and runes scattered about as they argued over a vast sheet of…   
  
“Is that Basilisk hide?” Draco couldn’t stop himself from asking.

Troll looked up from the distinctive acid green and grinned, waving at it with the knife he was using, “Nope. Clearly this is the hide of a garden snake.”

Mab reached across the table to slap Troll across the back of the head and Draco remembered his manners.

“Right. Mother, this is Potter’s adoptive mother, Mabon, who has neglected to use any other identifiers, and Ophiuchus Moses Grey, who prefers to be called Troll. Mab, Troll, may I present Lady Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black, my mother.”

“Like I told Wit when we met, you can call me Mab if you like,” the woman said, black eyes glittering though dark-rimmed lashes. It looked unsettlingly like blades in the dark. “Mad Mab if you don’t.”

“Narcissa,” Mother said in exchange, offering a hand daintily. 

Troll took it with an overly elaborate bow and a tip of his dark green Balmoral bonnet. Given the Balmoral was a loose-topped beret-like arrangement with a pom-pom on top, it should not have been tip-able. He tipped it anyway.

“Enchante, of course.”

“You’re her  _ cousin _ ,” Draco blurted. Troll gave him a withering look.

“That is no reason to be rude and all the more reason to be charmed to meet her,” he said stiffly. Suddenly, Draco saw it, the resemblance to his mother drawn in lines of stiff restraint against disappointment and superiority. It hit with the force of a physical blow, like taking a bludger to the gut, and he was glad when Mab cut in.

“Beg pardon, but how exactly are you related? Because I’ve met this arse’s family, and while they’re delightful, they’re not… wand-users.” She said the word delicately, not disdainfully, but with an air of something perhaps upsetting. It stung, and Draco wondered if that was how Granger felt when he’d called her a mudblood. Probably worse, though, since he could tell Mab didn’t want it to hurt, and he had.

Narcissa's lips twitched towards a purse without quite making it there. "That depends on exactly how old his father is."

Troll frowned. “The orphanage records indicated he was left to them, roughly a week old, in March, 1951. Why does that matter?"

"The family tree was enchanted," Narcissa began delicately, "to reflect the Book of Names here at Hogwarts. If a child was born of a Black, named, and their name appeared in the Book, they show up on the tree. It is...assumed that those who do not show up in the Book are squibs, born with no magic, to whom our world would never be fully accessible. Those who don't show up on the tree get renamed Grey, and sent to an orphanage in muggle society, where the world can be… As much theirs as anyone's. They are never again mentioned by the Family. The only records we have of them are in diaries of the families expecting and then not  _ having _ a new Black."

Mab raised an eyebrow, “And?”

Narcissa’s lips twitched, pulling a battered leather bound book out and turning pages. “Cygnus Black II, my father, born 1938, had one such diary. Mentioning when he was 12 that he was expecting a new brother. The next mention, in March of 1951, is a single line, the only thing on the page.” She turned the book to show them.

_ March 16th, 1951 _

_ “There is no new Black. Only a Grey.” _

***

After shooing the boys off to eat lunch and get to Runes class, and Severus to go teach his potions class and maybe consume something vaguely nutritious at some point before dinner time, Mab lead Troll and Narcissa to Workshop 1, which hosted several small kitchens, for a “light Tea.”

While Mab unwrapped a loaf of her homemade herb bread, sliced it and made sandwiches, Narcissa asked about Troll’s family history. Troll  _ gleefully  _ took advantage of the opportunity given to recite his genealogy through his mother’s line, both her father and her mother’s lines, starting with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Mab’s sandwiches were simultaneously Very Traditional, and not at all. Cucumber and cream cheese does not generally involve thin slices of fresh garlic and ginger. Lox doesn’t usually involve those pungent roots either, nor bell pepper slices. Narcissa startled a bit in surprise but quickly smiled and delightedly ate more. 

Mab nodded smugly, then nudged Troll off of genealogy recitation and on to the Far More Entertaining tales of his family.

Troll grinned, “Right, so, Joseph, son of Jacob, was a wizard and also a seer or prophet some four thousand-ish years ago. He didn’t use a wand partly because wands weren’t really a thing then, but most of his descendants never bothered with the things either. Sabba and Savta, Josef Bloom and Shoshana Rosenberg, believe that you respect the gifts you are given, which means you don’t do with magic what can be done with hands, and you don’t do things you don’t actually  _ need _ with magic.” He sipped at the spicy-sweet chai as he warmed up to the stories, “During WWII, they worked in evacuating  _ anyone _ on the list of ‘Undesirables’ the German Muggle government, evil assholes called Nazis, were... trying to eliminate. Which sometimes meant evading capture themselves and out-running soldiers. There was a mad debate about the ethics of Golem construction and use, specifically, the making of sentient and/or sapient anything for the express purpose of combat in a war. They wound up making golems to carry those who could not carry themselves to safety while Sabba and Savta did the firing at enemies themselves. Then they gave the golems a choice on what to do next: stay on, helping them evacuate people, which might involve having to shoot and be shot at; being deactivated; or continue helping a specific person who they carried out.”

He smiled fondly, “Some of the golems are still around. Anyway, after the war, they married, settled, helped rebuild London, and had children." He waved his hand airily, and grinned, "And then they got  _ bored. _ They turned their attention inward, to a different kind of battle, to home, England, and London, and the dozens of orphanages freshly full up and overflowing with war orphans. They took their kids with them when they inspected facilities, letting them run free over the grounds. The kids then reported anything they thought was “off” back to their parents, because kids are the best spies.” He smirked knowingly, proudly.

“Aunt Miriam was born in 1948 and is a lesbian and solicitor who works primarily with activist organizations. Uncle Gideon, born in 1951, joined the Army, then when he mustered out, federal level investigative law enforcement. He helps Sabba out at his nonprofit organizations and the synagogue in his free time. My mum, Anael, was born in 1954 and runs all over the world flipping off dictatorships and helping people keep breathing. She’s 58 and still going.”

Mab snorted, “Because she’s a delightful lunatic who doesn’t know how to slow down.”

Troll frowned in mock-offence and carried on, “Mum grew up helping her parents with the utter travesty of orphanages. At 14 she met a 17 year old boy who had to be bribed into saying his name. As a result of that meeting, Dad lived with Sabba and Savta as they vehemently closed Wool’s Orphanage, asking Dad and others pulled from there what they should do with it. The orphans unanimously decreed it was ‘too haunted to use for anything, burn it down.’”

He grinned as Narcissa leaned in in interest to hear of her uncle, “Savta got them all permission to light that particular fire themselves, then called in religious leaders from every holy place of every religion in that part of London to pray and lay to rest the kids who died there and never got proper funerals, killed and forgotten by the system, and built a memorial park on the grounds, with carved marble bricks for every child they found in the records who’d died in the orphanage’s custody and a statue-fountain in memory of them all, and any who were missed in the records-dive. Dad stayed with them until he left for Uni and Law School with Sabba’s help." He took a moment to enjoy his unusually spicy sandwich before continuing.

“Then Mum took a year off of college and spent her summer breaks helping refugees out of … unpleasant governments. From Russia in May of 1974 through August of '75, and ‘77, from the Khmer Rouge in '76, from East Germany in ‘78. She considered it both family tradition and Duty. December of ‘74 was… particularly unpleasant. The group she was leading out of Russia was stuck traveling on foot, and most of the southern border was guarded, with orders to shoot on sight. She took them through the only spot that was not guarded…” Troll paused to sip, and also make use of the cliffhanger to keep Narcissa interested.

“Which just so happened to be the Romanian Dragon Preserve. An over 2,000 year old Ukranian Ironbelly matron/queen landed to inspect these two-legged interlopers on her territory. Mum, at the front of the group, stared up at the dragon, closed her eyes and  _ wished _ to be able to talk to it and explain why they trespassed, albeit unknowingly, and ask or bargain for safe passage. Bîtca Doamnei was impressed that the two-legger spoke specifically the dragon dialect of parseltongue, and allowed her to make her case. She was less impressed with what the two-leggers, carrying hatchlings with them, on foot, through the snow, were fleeing, and allowed them safe passage provided they practiced sustainable hunting and did not make a mess of her territory. When a Soviet patrol found their tracks and chased them into the Preserve, shooting  _ weapons  _ at  _ hatchlings,  _ Doamnei removed the "problematic infestation of hatchling-killers." Mum has returned to the preserve every three years with a tribute herd of sheep in thanks and became friends with Doamnei. I’ve been going with Mum to visit the dragons since the January just after my sixth birthday.”

Narcissa blinked rapidly. “You mean to say that your mother is the Lady of Dragons we’ve heard of?”

“...They gave her a  _ title?” _ Troll squealed, beaming.

“Oh lord, Ophie’s going to be unbearable in his pride. Ana will be smug, of course, but  _ Ophie…” _ Mab groaned.

“No, he’s not!” Troll protested. “...I’m going to beat him to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Narcissa took a deep breath and let it out slowly_  
>  Cissa has FEELINGS about etiquette, something about the difference between a society and a mob.
> 
> _each student not raised within Wizarding Britain as well, since they start so far behind._  
>  Cissa may have been raised in the mire of racism (and has some in her too, because she's not actively acting against yet) but hers expresses in Noblese Oblige, and the assumption that Muggleborns are all like tragic little Dickensian urchins deserving of pity. It's still racism, but it has a heart of Good Person under it and can be worked on. --Bairn  
>  With a side order of _trying_ to be fair, I mean, can you really be judgemental of muggleborns if they aren't playing on the same field? Level the field and _then_ if they still don't match up, then you can judge them and be justified. Narcissa is a fair person. She was raised by racists, and is racist mostly because of that, but still believes in fairness. --Valky
> 
> _a door labeled “Workshop B”. Looking down the hall, there was also “Workshop 1” and “Workshop Purple”._  
>  Workshop 1 is Food Prep space for MageCrafting, as cooking is the safest way to start, and also, they're heading into flu season, knowing how to Fix The Sick will be useful. Workshop B is fabric and leather and beads. Workshop Purple is carpentry, pottery, and smithing. 
> 
> They're sorted by quantity and type of messiness. (Also, putting the Kiln and the forge in the same place just makes good sense.)
> 
> _Mabon, who has neglected to use any other identifiers,_  
>  Draco really hates not having a Proper Form of Address for her.
> 
> _“Mad Mab if you don’t.”_  
>  Mab's name is her warning label.  
> Mabon is the harvest equinox festival and, as such, is about peace, prosperity, reflecting on the last year and how your crops/plans worked out and what you need to change going forward, along with "reap what you sow" in both it's implications. The "Mab if you like, Mad Mab if you don't like" lets you know that she can be peace, balance, prosperity if you are Not An Ass, or she can be the insane Queen of the Unseeleigh, your choice really.
> 
> _his dark green Balmoral bonnet._  
>  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Balmoral_bonnet
> 
> _" It is...assumed that those who do not show up in the Book are squibs, born with no magic, to whom our world would never be fully accessible."_  
>  Yes, this is the nicest possible motivation, and not necessarily the (only) one at play for the Blacks and similar Families. However, one does not lightly mention those less kind motivations to one who was on the receiving end without substantial proof that that's what happened. In this case, all those involved are dead. Most of the Family is. Cissa would prefer to assume kindness and have the chance to regrow the decimated family than announce the cruelty and alienate potential allies.  
> Plus, Troll and Mab are wise to the world enough to read what's not said and grasp it anyway. This at least lets them know Cissa doesn't support the other reasons.  
> "touchy subject, be as delicate as possible" is a language in and of itself, and all three are fluent in it.
> 
> _starting with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob._   
> Because Troll really is Just That Extra.
> 
> _Mab’s sandwiches were simultaneously Very Traditional, and not at all._  
>  Traditional sandwiches for Tea are generally lightweight and of very mild flavor, cucumber or water cress and cream cheese, salmon and cream cheese, perhaps a lettuce, tomato, and cream cheese...
> 
> _Lox_  
>  "Lox and bagels" is smoked salmon and cream cheese on a bagel. Salmon and cream cheese on anything else would just be lox, as far as anyone I know can recall.
> 
> _the ethics of Golem construction and use,_  
>  Making Golems for the sole purpose of using them to fight your wars for you is pretty much exactly the same thing as the Clones in StarWars, and just as Morally Squicky.  
> Also a ton of the actual Golem stories have to do with "if you make a Person and then treat them like a Thing, you are a Bad Person and have no room to complain when the Person you mistreated leaves you in the fucking lurch."
> 
> _Bîtca Doamnei_  
>  There's a lake in Romania named Doamnei Batca and used to be named Doamnei Bîtca, but got changed because someone realized it's not really appropriate to name major water features "Lady Bitch". This lake is named after this particular dragon... who bears the title Bitch with pride. (The usually-provided definition of a "bitch" is one that **deeply** appeals to dragons.)


	24. Smug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea with Narcissa continues. Politics are discussed. Letters are received, and Beings are Smug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm LAAAATE! I know. I got stuck, and got bogged down with reality. Reality is annoying like that.  
> Next few chapters are almost exclusively about the adults, we'll get back to the kids soon, I promise.
> 
> Love Fest:  
> angeliceyes24245, Oceans_pebble, Imtroublesome, NumberNinja, Patronus_Vents, alien94, Morganmaxxis98, I_Am_IronMaiden, KindaPinkish, TreueHila, kaisen, lilbrarian, covertpartyhat, BiblioMatsuri, bookygurl, GrogMcLeod, hermionegrangerforlife, Rane0202, fish0029, and 13 guest kudoers!
> 
> Bonus points: pclauink, Trickster32, FantasyTLOU, Wynni, Aegopodium, Joey99, Masqueradewitch, redblooddeath, willowfire, IantoLives, biblioworm, GrogMcLeod, MsSpaceey, bookygurl, hhhellcat, jasper1999x, and alien94 for commenting!

The detritus of sandwiches cleared away, Mab brought out a plate of assorted desserts, lemon bars, brownies, and triple chocolate chip cookies featured heavily. 

Narcissa picked up what appeared to be a double-chocolate chip cookie, dotted with white and dark chocolate and bit daintily into it. She squeaked in surprise at the spiciness of it.

“If you don’t care for the spice on that, avoid the brownies,” Mab advised.

“No,” Narcissa demurred, “I simply wasn’t expecting it. Ginger?”

“And cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg,” Mab smiled. “I find including such spices boosts the immune system and helps ward off chill. There’s no reason preventatives and medicines can’t taste good.  The brownies are Aztec Darks, with 90%cacao chocolate, cinnamon, cayenne pepper, and sweetened with honey infused with jalapenos, for the same reason. ”

Narcissa looked at the brownies consideringly, but opted to stick with the winter-spice cookie for the moment. “Well, now I’ve heard about my cousin and his family, what of you? Is your family as interesting?”

Mab paused. “The answer to that depends on which family you’re asking about.”

Narcissa frowned ever so slightly in confusion. “How many families do you have?”

Mab waved her hand side to side vaguely, “Well there’s my genetic sources, who I largely refuse to acknowledge the existence of beyond that statement, there’s the family I had from a few seasons after I ran away from the genetic donors till puberty, a succession of foster families I generally refused to stay with, the foster family I did stay with for the last two years before being legally adult, and the family I made for myself.”

Narcissa’s brow creased, but her smile was kind. “I already know the family you made for yourself is very interesting; my son’s letter was quite clear on that. But, what with the unexpected kin I’ve found today I am curious, and perhaps with reason… what do you know of your biological family? There may be blood family who would welcome your addition, even if those who specifically created you weren’t worthy of the gift.”

Mab grimaced and shrugged. “I would, if I could, but I can’t. I don’t know. I don’t know my birthdate, they never called me anything other than ‘brat’ or less polite terms, they never even called each other by any actual name, one was only called things like ‘Bad,’ Stinky, or Villain, and the other was ‘Odd,’ ‘Abnormal,’ or ‘Weird’. They weren’t  _ parents _ and I never could call them that. When I was finally discovered by the Child Protection System, somewhere around puberty, they discovered I didn’t exist in any paperwork anywhere. They assigned me a birthdate based on how old they thought I was and allowed the name I was given after I ran away as a legal name and sorted the paperwork for me, but prior to that, I have no information to give you. I didn’t exist, and neither did they.”

Narcissa  _ actually _ frowned at that, muttering under her breath for a moment. She sighed, “There are two reasons I can think of that adults would not exist in muggle records, either they were criminals of some stripe, well beyond their treatment of you, or were born in a magical household and  _ not _ given up for adoption at infancy. The names you remember them calling each other… might indicate the latter, which would also make you a relative, but I can’t recall either of  _ those _ families having someone in the right age-range to have born or sired you.”

“They were likely Squibs, you mean,” Troll interrupted.

“Yes,” Narcissa replied, somehow balancing delicacy and bluntness. “The Black family is the only one I know for sure that has their Tree designed to find squibs early, allowing them to send the children to muggle society early enough to have records. Other families either keep the children, but blame them for not being able to interact with our world effectively, hiding them away from the world, send them away when they don’t get their letters at eleven, often with no care for how they’ll survive on their own, or… Historically, some families killed squibs as soon as they knew they were squibs, believing them to be a stain on the Family Honor.”

“Wouldn’t any relatives of  _ theirs  _ treat me the same way?” Mab asked, seriously.

“Not necessarily. Most of the generation that would include your biological grandparents died over the last twenty to fifty years. What’s left are either more open minded, or in prison. If they’re in prison, you don’t need to worry about them. If they’re not, they likely have children attending here, and as such, are already aware of you, if not of your relation.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, putting pressure on a budding tension headache. “To be honest… our strata of society has been weakened, if not technically decimated. Politics, genetics, a score of reasons, but our families are not as large as they once were, and many of us are starting to wonder…. Well, suffice it to say if we knew which family, I could put you in contact with at least one person who would see you as a welcome reinforcement.”

“But what would she get out of it, dear Cousin?” Troll asked with an entirely Slytherin smirk.

“She’s raising a son in our society,” Cissa said tartly. “One expected to go on to be a great man, one with  _ influence _ and power and all the political strings and back talk involved in that. So am I, for that matter, and in this I have some experience. You want allies. You want kin whose aims align with his best interests. You want access to a stockpile of favors and blackmail while he learns to navigate such tools himself. It’s a fair trade, and we both know you’d take a much less fair one for a chance to keep your son safe.”

“That’s one thing, the economics of power in the here and now are all about Name and ancestry, while I may  _ hate _ that power schema for what it does to those  _ without, _ I don’t turn down useful tools when I need them. I may hate what capitalism does to the working population, but that doesn’t mean I’ll turn down the money I need to survive it, just ask some serious questions about the strings attached to it. But I don’t actually have any of the information needed to  _ start _ looking for that family.” Mab huffed.

Narcissa sighed, nodding, “That’s true, but there may be a way to get it. Only if you want to.”

Mab frowned, “Like what?”

“Gringotts offers a variety of testing for when family trees are suspect or when two persons of the same standing on the tree could inherit and there isn’t a will to solve the dilemma.”

Mab raised an eyebrow, “And how much does a service like that generally cost?”

Narcissa sipped at the remains of her tea and waved it off, “Don’t worry about it, I raised the question, it’s only fair I pay for the answer.”

Mab and Troll shared a look in silence, before Mab turned back to Narcissa, grinning. “When do we go?”

Narcissa raised an eyebrow and smiled back, “When are you available?”

“Not Saturday,” Troll answered quickly.

At Narcissa’s curious look, Mab clarified, “Saturday is the Sabbath, between the modifications to the rules needed to account for the way magic is used here and the rush we believed we were under to get things done in three days, last Saturday was not observed, but Troll and his family  _ are _ still Jewish. Is Gringotts open on Sunday?”

“Gringotts never closes," Narcissus stated matter of factly, "The Goblins take days off in a rotation, with managers being on-call for anything that can’t be dealt with by their assistants, two days off out of every ten, but no one outside Gringotts really knows how it works or why, they’re just  _ always _ open for business.”

“Sunday, then,” Mab said, “after lunch. Troll has his smithing class from 10 to noon, and will need to make himself presentable. Preferably in a manner that involves a  _ shirt.” _

Narcissa nodded, “I’ll be sure to drag my husband along, We can make a day of it. Perhaps persuade the rest of your family to join us for tea? I would like to meet my uncle and his wife, at the least, and the couple who helped him so much and became my cousin’s grandparents. I will instruct our elves that Tea will be Kosher.”

“I think Dad, in particular, would quite enjoy that. I’ll issue the invite,” Troll smiled.

“Excellent. Shall we meet at Gringotts at 1:30 then? Please drag Severus with you, Lord knows he needs to get out of his dungeon once in a while. A trip to the bank and Tea with actual people won’t kill the bat.”

***

Jareth The Owl was smug. Hedwig would tell you that he’s  _ always  _ smug, but this time it was well and truly deserved, and Hedwig could keep her prim beak to herself. How many other Owls could claim a diagonal trans-atlantic flight in one day? He deserved his smugness, dammit. He settled in to eat the Weapontail lizard that had decided to block up the bathroom sink of the house he was delivering letters to while he waited for his replies. He decided he liked this pair, they saved a nice fat and weaponized reptile for him. They took his letters and asked him to wait. He was just fine with waiting if they were going to keep feeding him juicy lizards.

“Remus,” the dark haired one squeaked, “Remus, come read this.”

“Only if you’ll trade and read both of mine, pup sent me two,” the yellow-haired one answered, “I  _ need  _ to make sure I’m not just seeing things.”

They went quiet again, reading the pages. “We’re going, right?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course we’re going. We can take a port key to my grandmother’s house in Alnwick and send Jareth up from there with a letter letting them know we’re there. Not like we have much to pack, is it?”

“You get the port key, I’ll take down the wards.”

“Ten minutes.”

“You won’t mind taking the short way home will you?” The dark one asked Jareth. Jareth hooted derisively. If they were offering to carry him…

***

Ten minutes later Jareth left lizard bits on the dark one’s feathers and took the note up to his person’s room. Never Again. Let Hedwig choose to ride with her human rather than fly properly like an Owl should. Humans were crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _She squeaked in surprise at the spiciness of it._  
>  The triple-choc cookies are ordinary, the double choc ones are laced with ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. It's November, pumpkin spice without a hint of pumpkin cookies are entirely appropriate. I'LL MAKE THEM IF I WANT TO, DAMMIT.  
> The brownies are Aztec Darks, with 90%cacao chocolate, cinnamon, cayenne pepper, and sweetened with honey infused with jalapenos. Because it's COLD out there and spicy foods help ward off colds, especially when cooked with magic. That's why ginger and cinnamon and cloves are so damned popular come fall. (that they work so well with sweet stuff helps)
> 
> _“I need to make sure I’m not just seeing things.”_  
>  Reality is still a bit... wobbly for Sirius. Remus' job is fact checking Sirius' perceptions.
> 
> _We can take a port key to my grandmother’s house in Alnwick_  
>  This is Alnwick: https://www.google.com/maps/place/Alnwick,+UK/@55.4093035,-1.7254304,14z/data=!3m1!4b1!4m5!3m4!1s0x487df0ad52acc475:0x8eb5199fa5e06b68!8m2!3d55.412744!4d-1.706299  
> Remus' grandmother's name is Eglantine. Extra points to the first person who gets the reference.


	25. Sirius and Remus Arrive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still. Fucking. Tuesday, November 2nd. Hogwarts goes to the Dogs, brains melt out of ears, and nothing makes sense. So...situation normal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No really, this Tuesday feels like it never ends. (It does. I MADE it end. Just, next chapter. We've been on one week since chapter 10. I might drop answering some of the desired answers people have asked for in favor of making this fucking story speed the hell up. In theory, It will start doing so after we get past the Sunday after this. Which will, hopefully, not take four chapters per day.)
> 
> So, I don't post a chapter until the next chapter is written, because sometimes what gets written necessitates editing the previous chapter. This chapter and the next one were both complete assholes to write, with lots of Surprise!Angst popping up. It didn't help that Bairn and I kept dropping random comments at each other on VagueBook that spiraled out of control into AU fics. (Such that we now have four active AUs that we have not yet posted on, two of which are about ready to start posting, all of which promise to be exceedingly lengthy.) 
> 
> This chapter contains no real triggerwarnings, but heads up for the next one because All These Boys Are Supremely Fucked Up. I do stick to vague descriptions and implications, this is not the Jachkt-ville Horror Show, but still, be aware.
> 
> In this one we have consequences, mutism, anxiety, and magical means of dealing with those. (None of which were intended to be here at all, they just _happened_ without our consent or input.)
> 
> LoveFest: KeepItSimplePlease, PotionsChaos, DragonowlMoon, cicsummers, Werekoyote, Isa_von_Schwanbach, hermi175, Sellekat, Tenko_Guren, QueenDemon, Qwacker, Metaplanar, YsabelTriana, FelanLupus, and 12 guest kudoers.  
> Bonus Points: Masqueradewitch, willowfire, FantasyTLOU, pclauink, IantoLives (extra for guessing correctly), Wynni, Aegopodium, Zephiera, Trickster32, Joey99, diabolicArbitor, Clockweasel, MsSpacey, biblioworm, selenaquana, jasper1999x

_Write. Rewrite._

_Write it again._

_History is written by the victors_

_They say._

_Victors of what?_

_Different sides,_

_Different stories._

_Truth sacrificed to convenience_

_Silent bloodshed_

_Writes the laws_

_And is forgotten._

_No war was fought_

_No peace sought_

_Just bloodshed and law_

_And embracing_

_The comfort of forgetfulness_

_History lost, forgotten in the divide_

_Comfortable in mutual superiority_

_Blood leaking from books_

_Left on the shelf to dust_

_Who were the victors?_

“Wit,” Kothaar began slowly, “Who wrote this?”

“Greg Goyle. He gave it to me for writing practice, but said I could show you when I asked.”

Vvornth rustled papers to find his list of students, “He’s not one of ours.”

“Not _yet._ What house is he in?” Kothaar asked. “Who’s his Head?”

“Slytherin, and Pan is,” Wit answered, smiling slightly.

“Tell Greg I’m asking his Head of House for him to be added to Bardic. Maybe History, Savta Bloom will blow a gasket that he isn’t in her class after reading this.”

Wit grinned, he’d had a feeling. “I’ll do that now, then.”

***

Wit was practically vibrating in the Gryffindor common room. He was going to see his Godfather for the first time since he’d had to run away on Buckbeak. He had so much he wanted to say, and more he wanted to ask, and _so_ many people to introduce Sirius to.

“Deep breath, Pup,” Mab reminded him, quietly. “It’s been a while since he’s had safe people. Don’t run him over in the first five minutes.”

“Like you did when you spotted Wit?” Troll asked. Mab swatted his arm. “It’s 4:02. He said he’d be here at four.”

“The floo can take a few minutes if it’s a long trip or if you’re avoiding people,” Ron said. “Technically Sirius isn’t supposed to use the floo at all, since he’s an escaped convict, but Fred says there’s ways around it, it just makes the trip longer.”

“You have to know where the observation spells are and bounce yourself around them,” Hermione explained. “Like running a blockade. _Fascinating_ really.”

Just then, the fire flared blue and a tall, overly thin man with shaggy dark hair stepped out, brushing embers from his leather jacket. Mab frowned. He...did not look healthy. At all. “What’s all this I hear about a Mum?” Sirius asked, stepping towards Harry, which made room for Remus to step through after.

“I’ve already made the arrangements,” Mab said stiffly. “Lady Magic herself approved the adoption and I _will continue_ to be Wit’s guardian.”

“Who?” Sirius asked, only to get an armful of over excited godson explaining _everything_ since the early summer day he’d spotted someone singing in Little Whinging. It was a lot, and very fast, and Sirius was left feeling like a herd of hippogriffs had stampeded through his brain, trying to keep up.

“...and you’ve GOT to apologize to Fitz, immediately if not sooner. I told him to meet us here, I don’t know why he’s not gotten here yet.”

“I had to dodge Karkaroff,” Fitz said. “Thank you for the loan of the Cloak, Evans.”

“I-erm, wha- _Evans?”_ Sirius stumbled. 

“That’s what you get stuck on?” Remus asked incredulously.

“I’m stuck on everything,” Sirius answered with exasperation, “That’s just the first bit that made it into word format.”

“Professors aren’t allowed to call students by first names or nicknames,” Wit clarified as if it was obvious, rolling his eyes, “and there was an _issue_ with being confused for Dad, who was, admittedly, an asshole for a number of years, so I gave the professor with the biggest difficulty permission to call me by the _other_ last name I have claim to instead.”

Sirius opened and closed his mouth repeatedly for a moment, whined, and then suddenly sat on the floor as a dog. Wit looked up at Remus in confusion, while Mab frowned behind him. Remus, having spent the last five months dealing with this, sighed. 

“He’s apparently having difficulty with words, at the moment,” Remus explained. “Hazards of being raised by the Black Family: meaningless words are easy, any other words are hard. _True_ words,” he glanced up at Severus meaningfully, “especially things like admitting you don’t know or understand something, fears, or apologies, were weaknesses that someone inevitably _would_ exploit. Even in school, he could only ever _say_ them if he didn’t _mean_ them. Until the others taught themselves to be animagi in fifth year, Sirius would avoid any consequential or genuine conversation with increasingly ridiculous excuses before disappearing down one of the secret passages. Afterwards, by shifting into a dog so he could not _possibly_ be expected to answer. It’s… Azkaban burnt away most of his meaningless words, so he spends quite a lot of time as a dog, of late.”

Padfoot laid his head down on his paws, gave them his most pathetic look, and whined softly.

Mab pursed her lips and sent a questioning look sideways at Severus, “Fitz?”

Severus sneered briefly, “All yours.” He straightened brusquely, “I believe we have contracts and security matters to discuss?”

“I brought copies of my contract with Hogwarts as requested Ms. Mabon,” Remus said. 

She handed the papers he gave her to Troll with a firm nod. He grinned and started leafing through them.

“I’m _well_ aware we’d all rather be playing merry havoc with the red tape,” she said with a pointed look at Severus, “but some things can’t be let fester. It only gets worse if you leave it unsaid. As much respect as I have for my predecessor, how much pain was caused by not pinning you down over a summer?”

“I can free up the time after dinner,” he said grudgingly. “My quarters, I think. They’re the best warded.”

“We’re working on the classrooms but our methods take time to properly sink into the walls,” Troll explained unhelpfully to Remus. "Now, come on, I want to go over this with you, and I think Fuzzy Wuzzy over here would benefit from walkies with Kothaar and Vvornth.”

Sirius perked his ears, and the plan was set.

***

Kothaar and Vvornth were quite happy to take Padfoot on a walk down to the lake. Padfoot ran eagerly ahead, thinking a liedown under his favorite tree would be just the thing. Kothaar stayed close while Vvornth strolled leisurely after them. Padfoot wasn’t sure what to make of the Vikings. Padfoot wasn’t sure what to make of almost anything at the moment. He sometimes had difficulty remembering just how many years he’d blanked out in a small stone cell, with one day just running into the next. He _knew,_ logically, that the men behind him were a decade or more younger than him, but he felt like they were supposed to be the same age. He _knew_ that Harry-pup was 14, but felt like he was supposed to still be a baby. He _knew_ Lily and James were gone but kept expecting to turn around and find them there. And yet... there was Harry, smaller than he should be, and bigger than Padfoot remembered him being, and loving everyone around him _including Snape_ , but calling Prongs an asshole. He _knew_ that that was right, Lily would say that too, would love _everyone_ too. He _knew_ they really _were_ assholes. But… 

Kothaar picked up a good-length stick. _Oh. Oh, no. Did Remus tell them?_ The stick was waved in front of him a moment, catching his attention before flying far ahead. Padfoot stomped on the glee and instinct to give chase, and abruptly sat down. On the viking’s foot. With all 60kg of his weight. _Shut up, he deserved it. He_ ** _threw_** _the_ ** _stick._** Padfoot turned and gave the tall blonde his most indignant glare and huffed at him.

Kothaar just laughed at him and pulled his foot free, "Well if you are going to look like a dog you might as well act like one!" he reasoned, as Vvornth caught up with them. Padfoot grumbled at the both of them, and flopped over onto his side. Vvornth laughed, from his very soul, it seemed. Padfoot was pretty sure he used to laugh like that, but couldn’t really _remember._ Vvornth sitting on the ground next to him brought him back to the now. 

“Would it be offensive to you, _sir_ Padfoot, if I stroked you?" Vvornth wouldn't stoop to use the _p_ word, "I imagine it feels much like a massage and you could probably use one."

That. That was a _lovely_ idea. Padfoot signalled his consent with as much dignity as he could muster (nowhere near as much as he thought) and relaxed into the motion of strong fingers running through his fur.

Yes. This was _acceptable._

***

Half an hour later the three walked back into the castle to meet Troll and Mab to talk paperwork. Padfoot grinned as they joined the man who… looked like he might be a cousin? He reminded Padfoot rather a lot of Reggie, but less...stifled. Proper. Like who Reggie could have been without Walburga, if he’d lived long enou… Pads cut the thought short and looked around. Well, he’d have to reveal himself sometime, right? And what better way to fuel the rumor mill than doing so in the entrance hall? The chaos of Hogwarts’ gossip was always a delight to play with. It took all his will not to cackle with delight when one of the professors shrieked at the sight of him transforming.

The whispers of “Sirius Black” had just started when a blonde man who had clearly once been quite muscled, but was well past his prime stumbled into the Entrance Hall. “Black!” he squacked and drew his wand. Sirius snorted, the man had terrible form, and was obviously terrified. “Y-you’re under arrest, Black!” the man stuttered.

Sirius twitched an eyebrow and disarmed the man while Troll grinned behind him.

“No, he’s not,” Troll announced cheerfully.

“What do you mean, he’s not?” the blonde blustered, his black and yellow robes shaking.

Sirius and Troll both grinned at him, the back of Sirius’ mind noting that Troll’s grin was very… familiar.

“Neutral ground, remember, Mr. Bagman?” Troll piped. “You can’t arrest him without proof he broke _international_ law until after the tournament is finished. As there _are_ **no** trial records of his conviction, he is _not_ , in fact, an escaped convict. Without trial records, he was illegally held prisoner, and therefore has in fact committed _no_ crime under international law. So no, you won’t be arresting him.”

“Bagman?” Sirius asked, “Ludo, that you? You’re not an auror, Ludo, the hell are you doing trying to arrest me?”

“Mr. Bagman is a duly appointed representative of the Ministry of Magic,” Snape informed them snidely. “As such, he clearly is duty bound to uphold the strictures of Wizarding Law and Order.”

“Just try it Snivellus,” Sirius growled. “You don’t have your little pets this time, you bastard. No kisses for me, thanks.”

“Regretfully,” Snape said, sneering at them all in disdain, “Mr. Grey is correct. It was established precedent that Hogwarts is, for the time, neutral ground. So long as you fail to violate school rules or excessively endanger the students, we can’t touch you until the Triwizard Tournament is over. But rest assured, Black… you put one furry toe over that line and I will personally drag you to London by hand if need be.”

“Just to clarify,” Remus said mildly, “by _excessive endangerment_ do you mean something like supporting an incompetent madman in his attempts to goad children into deuling, or is the bar a bit higher, like accusing a student of a felony in front of the Minister of Magic?”

“Oh, how about we set the bar at attempting to trick a student into engaging with a fully transformed and uncontrolled werewolf?” Snape suggested.

“Have you actually apologised for that, by the way?” Troll asked Sirius. “I don’t know Remus’ policy on the matter, but Mab would skin me alive if I tried to use her as a murder weapon without her consent.”

  
“Yes,” Sirius said as Remus added “Thoroughly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Like running a blockade. Fascinating really.”_  
>  Hermione either has a thing for smugglers, pirates and maybe Sci-Fi...  
> Or is rather Like Jane in certain ways. Even odds. She might grow up to be a Browncoat in Real Life, or an astrophysicist. WHO KNOWS?
> 
> Hermione: As Jane shows, those aren't actually mutually exclusive. Interstellar travel with magic might be possible and also like running a blockade on the floo network.
> 
> _"Sirius would avoid any consequential or genuine..."_  
>  Remus may have some lingering issues with the word "serious" due to puns being made Literally Every Single Time the word was used, and now avoids it like the plague. If ANY OTHER WORD works in a sentence, that's what he'll use. Prior to the reveal of Black's innocence, Dumbledore made worried faces at him because "it's been more than a decade, Remus, surely you can say the word by now?"
> 
> But a voice in the back of his head piped up with "Don't call me Shirley, I'm Sirius!" and he noped the hell out.
> 
> _With all 60kg of his weight._  
>  Adult male newfoundlands weigh 60-70kg. (130-150lbs) he's had 13 years of no exercise and plenty of starvation, and five months hiding in Brazil with Remus. five months ago he was probably 125lbs or so, 13 years ago, he was the full 150, mostly lean muscle.  
> Sirius is ALSO 130lbs as a human, currently. which, considering he's over 5'10" adult human....is BAD. He was 180 before. (right in the "ideal weight range", and again, mostly lean muscle because auror and war) he didn't have much he could really lose safely and he dropped to 125... 5 lbs back is a GOOD thing, but it's no where near enough.


	26. Overgrown Boys Unite, Antithetically

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday, November 3rd.  
> How apologies work, and other things 34 year olds should know by now.  
> Also, Hella angst, mind your head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That trigger chapter I've been warning of is here. There are no graphic depictions of anything, there ARE however, discussions of and implications of a great many things including but not limited to child abuse, rape, assault, the Black Family, how Sirius' brain works and doesn't, panic attacks, and misuse of sex. There IS a point to all this, and this is where healing starts, but it is REALLY not pleasant.
> 
> Love Fest: Music_grl, ohlookacopingmechanisim, LiveryFaith, TheLadyNightShade, Mary_Ann03, Cirrat, PixelDragon, lokiwinners, Argentee, carwebear1, and 4 guest kudoers.  
> Bonus Points: Aegopodium, hhhellcat, willowfire, Joey99, Trickster32, FantasyTLOU, Wynni, Masqueradewitch, ClockWeasel, Cirrat, IantoLives, Argentee, MsSpacey, and Music_grl

Twelve. Hours. 

Mab let them be for twelve hours, counting every “Mutt” and “Snivelly” between them. Troll counted sneers and how many times he was forced to mentally compare them to thirteen year olds, usually in the favor of the thirteen year olds. It was a _long_ twelve hours, and they spent six of them asleep, _nine_ of them separated by half of a castle.

Mab was ready to strangle all three of them, even _with_ joining McGonagall in spiking her tea to survive sitting next to them at the head table. “Minerva, please,” praised Mab’s patience under her breath and offered her own flask to the task of not killing the idiots. Mab took it gratefully.

When breakfast was over, she informed all three soto-voice that they could walk willingly to a private office to sort their issues, or they could be dragged by their ears like the unruly pre-teens they clearly were.

They went. 

Reluctantly.

Severus first, with Troll calmly strolling beside him, so that they could maintain the appearance of not associating willingly without the Completely Unnecessary Drama of being dragged through the halls. Mab marched the other two down a few minutes later, glowering all the while. She didn’t need _help_ glowering. 

She got it anyway:

"Really Mab, I am sure Snivvles and I can work this out fine. No reason for you to have to waste your evening hanging about me and gloomy face."

Mab whipped around with fiery death-glare glowing from her eyes. "THAT little piece of Gǒu shǐ is why I **do** have to come. Either to stop you two from beating each other black and blue or to beat you both black and blue **_myself!_ **"

She swung back around so violently her skirts flung up to smack into Sirius, leaving him gobsmacked both figuratively and literally. He whimpered at Remus, but the werewolf wasn’t going to take on this particular pack leader and they both knew it.

“You’re in a mood,” Fitz said as she entered, Troll already being present. “Not that I mind, it’ll help me pass this off as entirely unwanted later.”

“Be honest, it _is_ entirely unwanted,” Remus said. Fitz nodded and shrugged.

“The best lies aren’t. I’m sure you’ve already been appraised of my… role, yes?” 

“You’re a spy,” Remus said without any judgement.

“Does make trusting you harder,” Sirius said sullenly. “How do I know where your loyalties are?”

“They’re exactly where mine are,” Mab said sternly. “With Wit. Fitz here lays his loyalty with his family, with his sister Lily and her son, my son, and through him with our people and with you, if you are in fact capable of working on your shit.”

Fitz gave another shrug and a look like ‘she’s not wrong’, and sat down. Mab took the other chair in his living room area, and Remus and Sirius looked at each other and the sparse office before plopping down on the rug by the fire. Troll held up a wall in the corner.

“If I may summarize,” Mab said, without letting it seem she was asking permission, “based entirely of course on compromised or second hand information, since none of you actually _communicate_ without death threats, apparently.”

“I--” Fitz started, then frowned. “Ah, yes, point taken. Please continue.”

“To start with, none of you liked each other from day one, for the vague and shallow reasons of children. None of you had any _healthy_ coping tools for not liking others, and decided to take out the multitudinous sins of your forebears on everyone around you. Remus gets credit where credit is due for actually managing not to alienate the people nearest him long enough for them to become friends, good job.” Remus grinned at her and Mab fought down the urge to pat his head. “All that would be understandable, except that Severus and Sirius decided to escalate matters. Both of you committed terrible atrocities in the name of your dislike. _Both_ of you decided that two wrongs can somehow make a right.” She glowered at both of them, daring them to deny it. 

“You are both adults, even if you refuse to act like it. Those things were years ago. There is a _very challenging_ skill that can fix this. So, very challenging. It takes three steps. I know unholy terrors masquerading as five year old girls who have it down pat, so it shouldn’t be too troublesome for two and a half thirty-four year old men.” She counted the steps off on her fingers, “Say you’re sorry. Stop doing it. And _move. On.”_

“It… cannot be that simple,” Sirius said slowly. Remus looked at him sadly.

“It is, for most people,” he said quietly. “You can also break it down farther, if it helps. Say what it is you did wrong, say why it was wrong, and offer reparations, before not doing it and moving on.”

“Saying it is one thing,” Snape sneered, and his face was decidedly that of Snape. “Actually enacting this… skill… is quite another.”

“You want me to walk you through it?” Mab shot back.

“Yes please,” Sirius said suddenly. She blinked at him. She hadn’t actually expected either of them to take her up on it. “Can we start with the Willow? I… understand that one, but the words don’t… word.”

“Ah,” Mab said softly. “Sure. So, following Remus’ excellent example, what did you do wrong?”

“I purposely gave Sni-- Snape, information I knew he would use to get into a room with Remus while he was transformed. Remus, that is, not Snape.”

“And why was that wrong?”

“He could have died, or been turned.” Sirius looked at the floor and hunched his shoulders. Remus patted his back until the tiny shudders shaking his frame stopped. “That would have been murder, if it worked. Or something far worse.”

“And reparations?” Mab asked gently. Remus stiffened and Sirius let his “charming asshole” mask fall back in place. Before she could parse what had gone wrong, he opened his mouth.

“I could let you bugger me rough,” he offered, shrugging apologetically. Fitz fell out of his chair trying to scramble away from that suggestion, his back thudding against the floor and then the door of an unlucky cupboard as he skittered backwards.

“Not an option,” Mab said dryly. “Considering that, as I may have mentioned, two wrongs do not tend to make a right, and no matter what end of the equation one is on, being sexually assaulted is hardly a proper apology.”

“No, I didn’t mean,” Sirius paused. “Moony?”

“Sirius has… difficulty with concrete apologies,” Remus said. “Lily and I postulated that in the Black family, Everything Is About Power, so when Sirius _taught himself_ about Right and Wrong, he understood Wrong in the context of ‘takes power away from others’ but not so much the nuance. He understands that Wrong is supposed to be punished, which is Siriussian for ‘make amends’, and that the best way to do that is a way that gives power back to the person it was taken from. Money is power, but not a power people appreciate being given as an apology, and besides, gainfully employed adults tend to have money, so giving him money would not equal giving back power. Even when we were in school, most of our group never needed money. Knowledge is power, but, especially in a school, one everyone has or could get for themselves, so giving that doesn’t equal giving power. Among ourselves… well, the Marauders already knew basically everything about each other, so showing us a vulnerability didn't increase our power either…”

“Which led him to the conclusion of sex,” Mab finished, burying her face in her hand. “Power-exchange sex, but sex is pleasure and he did Wrong, which means not-pleasure, which means hurt mixed in _with_ the sex.”

“And it worked for us,” Remus added, holding his head high. “It wasn’t the best choice, maybe, but at the time, with no resources for how to handle… anyone from that family, with no knowledge of trauma aside from that we’d lived through, it was what we could make work.”

Troll laughed bitterly from where he was non-verbally guiding Severus through breathing, “So, what I’m hearing is, Dad & I are very lucky he got dumped on the hell pit that was Wool’s Orphanage instead of being raised by his bio-family. Got. It.”

“Thought you looked like a Black,” Sirius said roughly.

“Dad was Cygnus’ younger brother by about 12 years, apparently,” Troll shrugged.

“I… I can't do that,” Severus cut in quietly, still barely controlling his breathing, looking to Mab to help explain, hoping she’d understand what he meant, “I promised the Lily that wrote the Letter that I would never do anything that Tobias Snape would do.”

Mab stared at him a moment, parsing the conversation, dawning horror across her face, “Jesus _fuck.”_

She pinched the bridge of her nose and breathed deeply for a moment, “So, we’re a room full of _supremely fucked up_ people. Not really news, there. Of _course_ that asshole liked to make it hurt.”

“Severus, breathe,” Troll coached, calmly, “You’re not there, Tobias is long since dead, and even if he wasn’t, well, Mab would be _more_ than happy to turn him inside out.”   
  
“I would,” Mab agreed happily, “I need more practice keeping them alive so they can fully appreciate the entire process of having their bones removed and the remainders turned inside out like a wetsuit. Tobias would be _excellent_ practice. I’m almost sorry he had the intelligence to shuffle off the mortal coil before I could use him for such. Alternatively, there’s always sand pits, honey, and fire ants; reenactments of Vlad the Impaler’s multitudinous punishments, rumor has it people took _days_ to die on those logs; or using him to make a Leatherface cosplay.”

Her cheerful offers to painfully murder a dead man startled a laugh out of Severus. It wasn’t a happy laugh, per say, but at least he was breathing again, and his color was normalizing, which was, of course, the point.

Severus cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. For a great many things, but mostly, in regards to you, for lying last year. As Wit has said, there are reasons, but not excuses. I could, _should_ have found a way around them. I did not try to.”

Mab smiled faintly, “And amends?”

Sev shifted uncomfortably, “There’s a way, but I would require vows of secrecy from all of you... not even Dumbledore is to know.”

Sirius and Remus immediately raised their wands for the standard vows, but paused and looked at the other two. Sirius’ brow furrowed, “Can you two make binding vows? I think we can do it for you if you need, but…”

“That won’t be necessary,” Mab assured him as she straightened and offered Sev her hand. She shifted as he took it so that their hands were wrapped around each other’s forearms. Sirius’ eyes bugged out as he gulped.

“By warp and weft, from crown to root, my words reflect my intent, my intent reflects my actions, and my actions reflect my honor. Here within this space, within this time, my words are honest, my intent is good and my actions shall strive to be the same, that my honor shall remain strong. Before Norn and Fate, under witness of God and Goddess, your secrets shared shall be mine as well to guard, never to share without permit.”

While Sirius stared in confused awe at Mab, Troll stepped forward.

“I am a Jew, do you know what vows are to my people?” he shrugged, _“Any_ vow I make is binding, and He can and has struck down those who break their vows except in very specific circumstances. Which I think do not apply here.” Then he took Sev’s arm as Mab had, “Here within this space, within this time, my words are honest, my intent is good and my actions shall strive to be the same, that my honor shall remain strong. Before the witness of all who watch, _ani matia shua lo ledabel betua lo nkwnh hal hasutot shlr”_

Remus had to nudge Sirius to get him to actually vow, so thrown was he by the multitudinous revelations a simple pair of vows made, but they did vow to keep all shared within the room between lunch and dinner secret from all who were not present unless permission was given by Severus. 

Severus nodded solemnly and got up, going to the nearest door…  
Sirius leaned back to see what he was doing, and watched him pull a brick? From a toilet tank. 

Severus set the wet brick on the coffee table on one of its short ends, pricked his finger and wiped the blood on the brick, then muttered a spell under his breath, turning the brick into a cabinet. He turned the cabinet to face him, muttering incantations in four different languages under his breath while doing something with his hands that he kept hidden with the bulk of his body. When he opened the doors, he looked up to the raised eyebrows around him. “It’s not paranoia if they really ARE out to get you.”

Mab smirked and nodded. 

“Fair enough,” Sirius allowed.

Severus pulled a silver pensieve from the cabinet and set it on the table. The cabinet doors swung wide as he did so, revealing dozens upon dozens of memories.

“Why so many?” Remus asked.

“Further not-paranoia. I made a habit even before becoming a spy of reviewing them on a regular basis to check myself for any tampering with my mind. And I occasionally store specific things and then obliviate myself of them in case I truly need to not know them for a time. Since no one knows I even have access to a pensieve, let alone own one, my mind is as safe as it can be.”

“That’s fucked up,” Sirius said flatly.

“I do what I must to stay alive,” Severus answered back, with a tone of being very carefully not harsh.

“Not that, that you have to do it at all.”

“Oh.” Severus busied himself selecting several vials and pouring them into the pensieve rather than replying further. Finally he stood back and nodded, motioning for Sirius and Remus to join him. When they stood next to him, he stepped back and cheerily announced, “Right, in you go!” before shoving them both in.

“Sev,” Mab sighed, shaking her head at his peculiar means of avoidance. “What’d you put in?”

He smiled sadly, “Everything. Everything that matters, anyway. Tobias, Lily, what Slytherin dorms were like for me, Old Moldy, everything the Marauders did, Dumbledore.”

Mab nodded seriously, “You need them to see it, so they can understand. Do you _want_ us to see it?”

Severus hesitated, “It wouldn’t be pleasant, but… it might make many things easier if you did.”

“I want you to know that that isn’t actually an answer,” Troll replied, even as Mab nodded, hearing the answer he couldn’t say anyway.

“He’s not going to _ask_ us to do something we won’t enjoy, but he does want us to,” Mab said, stepping up to the pensieve.   
  
“We need to have a talk about how consent and communication actually works at some point _soon,”_ Troll grumbled, joining her.

***

_“Holy buggering fuck on a pooka-riding jackalope.”_ Sirius swore, stumbling out of the pensieve. “What the ever-loving _fuck_ was that? Now I understand the talk of turning people inside out.”

Sirius looked disturbed and shocked, Remus looked downright ill. Fortunately, Severus had had the forethought of asking Poe for tea service while he waited. Mab and Troll stumbled out shortly after, Troll looking grim and Mab clearly engaged in her personal happy thoughts of words ending in -ation (defenestration, evisceration, exsanguination, detonation, strangulation, perforation…)

“Annihilation!”  
  
“You said that one out loud, Mab,” Troll informed her drily, sitting back in his chair with a cup of tea.

“Oops,” she said flatly, clearly not meaning it at all.

  
  
Sirius idly sipped at his tea while staring blankly at the pensieve as Severus put the memories back in their vials and back in the cabinet. 

“Awfully quiet there, Pads,” Remus commented softly. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“I can’t pensieve my memories,” Sirius replied easily, “you have to be able to focus on them to pull them out, and Dementors ate mine. M’brain is like swiss cheese.” He tapped his temple sagely, “Sev should just use Legilimency on me, I’m not sure even I will ever remember anything enough to say it much less pensieve it otherwise.”

Severus promptly spit his mouthful of tea out and spilled half of the rest down his front, turning to stare at Sirius. “Gods damn it, Mutt!” he shouted, slamming his cup down on its saucer on the table. “You don’t just _offer_ people a walk in your head! Do you know how much damage they, _I,_ could do to you that way?” 

Sirius nodded affably and shrugged, “Yes. I am well aware. And? I’m not offering it to _people,_ I’m offering it to _YOU.”_

“Bloody, reckless Gryffindors, I’m going to need to brew more ulcer potion at this rate,” Sev muttered not-so-under-his-breath, as he spelled his robes dry. _“Fine._ Look at me then.”

Sirius met his eyes without hesitation, and Severus steeled himself.

_“Legilimens.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _little piece of Gǒu shǐ_ Firefly told me this means Shit, Google clarified the spelling of it.  
>  _defenestration_ the noun form of throwing someone out a window, preferably higher than three stories up.  
>  _evisceration_ disembowelment, to gut someone and let the entrails fall out, noun form.  
>  _exsanguination_ noun form blood loss, to remove all blood from a being that requires it.  
>  _detonation_ noun form to cause an explosion  
>  _strangulation_ noun of to strangle  
>  _perforation_ noun "to poke holes through something"  
>  _annihilation_ the complete destruction or obliteration of something.
> 
> _without death threats,_ Fitz talked directly to her, but only after seeing something he had every reason to think would be fatal to her.  
> Due to doses versus body weights in poisoning, and Mab taking the whole damn vial (which could have been more than one dose) the poison was potentially lethal.
> 
>  _rumor has it_ "Rumor" being the speculations of Historians, who rarely agree on anything, and often find evidence their predecessors were wrong, often drastically so, so anything further out than 300 years or so, Mab takes with a grain of salt.
> 
>  _She shifted as he took it so that their hands were wrapped around each other’s forearms. Sirius’ eyes bugged out as he gulped._  
>  If anyone was going to recognize the source of that, and be surprised any muggles remember it, it'd be a Black.
> 
>  _Before the witness of all who watch, ani matia shua lo ledabel betua lo nkwnh hal hasutot shlr”_  
>  Jewish law is VERY strict about when/how you can invoke G-d, and double strict about not invoking OTHER people's gods. Thus Troll is purposely vague about who's witnessing. Mab is academically agnostic, per previous canon, so she chose to invoke erry-damn-body in her typical belt-and-suspenders approach.  
> The Hebrew translates thus: I offer an oath not to speak unwisely of your secrets.  
> Hebrew doesn't HAVE vowels, and also, transliteration options are few and far between. This transliteration was done by a combination of Valky using Psalm 119 to figure the letters out and get them in the right order and Bairn using a text-to-speech app and then transcribing what she heard, and then cross checking each other's work. 
> 
> _Since no one knows I even have access_ He's a Slytherin, telling ANY (potential) Enemies about any strength or tool he has access to is Just Not Done, any more than simply telling people what your weaknesses are. He happens to like his pulse, he'd like to keep it, thanks. Never tell anyone all the weapons you have to hand. And a pensieve IS a weapon when dealing with a Legilimense.
> 
> Sorry-Not-Sorry about the cliffhanger, and no, we won't be going into what Sev saw when he did that, nor what all Sirius and the others walked through in the pensieve. THAT is all extremely graphic and also, not necessary for the story. Only the fact that it has happened and was seen is important.


	27. Win Conditions Are What You Make Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday, November 3rd,. And We're back to the kids, where things are Less Alright than they may appear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love Fest: Mahri92, Oli_The_Magic_Frog, Delusionalbi, FlyingWithTheWind, Jenlumos71, snakes_and_rainbows, and 7 guest kudoers
> 
> Bonus points to Trickster32, ClockWeasel, Danceurlifeaway2, Wynni, Joey99, FantasyTLOU, PotionsChaos, willowfire, IantoLives, Aegopodium, aregentee, hhhellcat.

Wit found himself falling into a new rhythm over the next few days. Charms was the same class it had always been, but half the class showed up to History with dictaquills to record everything that was talked about while allowing them to focus on the discussion itself. Mme. Bloom did not disappoint, continuing to present her class in a mind-blowing way, even for those who had six years of school among muggles. It turns out, history taught to those under twelve is rather tamer than reality. Who knew? 

Dru showed up for Herbology. Supposedly she was stopping in to update them on the Farm renovations but mostly it was to play with the Venomous Tentacula (whom she named Bob) and talk to Neville about showing him how to actually control how much of his magic and to what purpose that he dumps into plants. Which was a bit of a shock, since no one, including Neville apparently, even knew he’d been doing any such thing in the first place. Professor Sprout promised Dru she’d work with him on it as well. Otherwise, Herbology was normal.

Mab showed up to Ancient Languages looking like she’d much rather be drinking, but behaved normally, accepted their choices of languages and handed out the books they’d need. Padma picked Sanskrit and Mab grinned in a gleeful way that seemed slightly sinister. Harry, for the sake of simplicity when he already had much on his plate, stuck with Latin, which apparently, most of the purebloods in the class already knew. Mab forbade them from picking a language they were already conversant in, and fully half switched to Norse. Mill chose Sumerian, netting a grin almost more gleefully-evil than Padma’s Sanskrit got. Hermione threw everyone for a loop by picking Ogham. Mab told her she would get Dru in to tutor her.

Defence continued to be running, but switched from laps to a single lap of the quidditch pitch followed by running an obstacle course. Remus announced that they’d have defense lectures on Fridays instead of running, to the evident relief of the entire class, but that when they’d mastered the obstacle course, they’d move mondays to martial arts and dodging spells while running, which got a much less pleased response. Wit was pretty sure Mab and Troll applied the full weight of their evil brains to designing the thing, and wasn’t sure they’d ever master it.

Troll was visibly laughing at them when they straggled sore and dirty into Rituals, and launched straight into comparing, contrasting, and analyzing the various harvest-season rituals and festivals from different eras around the world.

He was still sore when he showed up for his Tournament Study session, but was relieved to discover that it wouldn’t be running, but rather focusing on shield charms from both magical traditions. Sirius, strangely serious for once, took the wanded side, and Troll the wandless side. They may have got a bit distracted comparing pros and cons of the two, for which Wit was relieved, as it gave him a slight break while they argued happily. It was less relieving when they then asked Wit to summarise their points and weigh in on the debate.

The only change to Transfiguration on Thursday was in the questions his fellow Óðr Academy students asked, as they looked for ways what they had been learning of wandless magics, history and languages applied to what they’d already learned at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall awarded an awful lot of points and looked downright  _ gleeful _ at the new directions they were approaching her class with.

Potions was… oddly not brutal, for a change. The focus on metaphors in Rituals seemed to make Potions go ever so slightly smoother. Pan was also, somehow lighter. Wit had no idea how, or why, but found he didn’t care so long as  _ something _ had helped.

Hela, petite, 17, sweet Hela, was somehow  _ utterly terrifying _ in Runes. Several of the less-polite students tried to act out, on the grounds that she was tiny, and cute and in no way an Actual Authority. At which point Hela slammed a warhammer down on their desks and asked them to translate the spellwork written in runes on it. Professor Babbling sat in on the class, and asked Hela some questions alongside the students, but Hela gave her the reference material she used and Babbling got  _ really _ excited to try some of the new translations. Ironically, Draco was almost too-well-behaved. Wit would have questioned it, but Pansy beat him to it, and Draco’s response...made a lot of sense.

“She looks like my mother.  That alone tells me she is not to be trifled with. Regardless of age, I know exactly what my mother can do when ticked off, and I have no desire to find out if Ms. Hela shares  _ those _ traits with my mother as well.”

Pansy nodded and let it go.

Bardic, now with Greg Goyle in it, was ...strange. Hogwarts had either opened up or made for them a room quite unlike any other in the castle. It was honestly a little confusing. It wasn’t especially large, having space for maybe 100 people to sit, but was larger than other classrooms and also… not a box. There were three terraced levels with a lower flat stage-like space on the opposite end from the entrance and the side walls sloped inwards toward the stage area while the ceiling also was higher at the back than at the front. That part reminded him of pictures he’d seen of Roman amphitheaters. It was also the last bit that made any direct sort of sense. The walls had heavy tapestries that did not line up, with the back wall completely covered in a thick velvet. And while the base construction of the room reminded him of Rome, the ceiling was neither flat nor a smooth curve but rather reminded him of Turkish palaces or Gothic cathedrals.

"Why's the room so...weird?" Ron asked.

"Short answer," Vvornth answered happily, "acoustics, which is the science of how sound travels around a space to the best effect. The long answer I suggest you seek Troll out for, as he has a degree in the study of light and sound engineering which includes the design of spaces to best auditory effect."

"Now," Kothaar continued, beginning the class, "as we discussed last class, when we were in a much less well designed room, Bardic magic has three aspects. Metaphors and the weavings of them, sound and the construction thereof, and  _ intent, _ which is the source of all magic. The first of which you are already learning some of in your other classes, but is even more important and prevalent here: metaphor and symbolism. Every aspect of music is embedded with symbolisms and metaphors, often ones that are hard-wired into our consciousness so that we don't even have to think about it to know."

"Every culture on the planet has music, and has had music far longer than any other form of communication. Every aspect, rhythm, melody, cadence, words, and rhymes, has a metaphor to it. Which is how even purely instrumental music can still tell a complete story, that can be understood by anyone capable of hearing it, without a single word uttered. One particular rhythm will call to mind a mother rocking her child, another the call to war, another of oceans, another of mountains. Music is endemic to the human consciousness. We will start today with listening to a selection of various types of music both instrumental and lyrical from all over the world. Write down what you feel and think throughout each work, if it has words, include what they make you think of as well as what the music itself makes you think of. Feel free to move around to see how the room affects the sound, but no talking till the music stops, we'll discuss at the end."

They spent the first hour of class just listening to music. The first song brought to mind a film Aunt Petunia used to put on for Dudley when they were very little, animations set to classical music. Wit put that away and focused on the music itself, even without centaurs and cherubs prancing through his vision, he could still feel a story in it, the details were missing, but the emotions were still there, and he could  _ hear  _ the dancing and merriment, the storm rolling in and the scurry for shelter. The second brought to mind dancing, fire and glinting gold and bodies that just  _ wanted _ to move. The third echoed mournfully over snow-covered fields, while the fourth bounced joyfully between mountains. Then they changed to songs with lyrics in English, but still from several different styles and all over the world. The first half hour after that was spent discussing the songs, which actually included a lot of history, as Kothaar and Vvornth told the stories behind the music. 

***

“Hey Harry, wait up!” Cedric called after him in the hallway. Wit had planned to go take a well deserved space-out up in his dorm, but the other boy looked like a sad golden retriever, so he sighed and pasted a smile on.

“Yes?” he asked politely. He watched a chorus line of emotions do a shuffle step across Diggory’s face and reflected this was probably what happened when a Hufflepuff ran sideways to their own moral compass. Given the last time they’d actually spoken outside of the minimal required communication for classes Cedric had passively let his friends and housemates cut Wit cold… well it wasn’t the most Hufflepuff thing.

“Well, Fleur suggested that we all, the champions I mean, spend some of our off hours together. Socially. You know, in the spirit of inter-school cooperation.” Cedric shifted. “And you’re a champion too, even if we don’t know how. So, would you like to come… hang out?”

“That depends,” Wit said slowly. “We’ve been champions, and you haven’t spoken to me, but you clearly have had conversations with Fleur and probably Krum too. Are you here because Fleur ‘suggested’ you invite me?”

“No, well yes but really no,” Cedric said, blushing hotly. “Your schedule is much tighter than ours, and I wanted to make sure we all had free time together first. And we had to pick a room, Viktor is supplying it, and I thought Fleur should invite you, since you  _ like _ her, but she said I should do it so you know we _ all  _ want you there.”

_ “Do _ you all want me there?” Wit asked softly, the doubt of Harry seeping back in. He had no idea why it had hurt so badly, to be cut out. He wasn’t even particularly close to the Hufflepuffs, but seeing a whole table of cold shoulders had felt like a dementor coming up behind him.

“Oh, of course we do, Harry. You’re one of us.” Cedric hesitantly put a hand on his shoulder, leaning in with sincerity. “You are a Champion, Harry, and not only does that make you one of our own, you’re younger than us and you had no choice. That alone means we should look after you. Make sure you’re okay at the end of all this. Mab was right, people have died in this thing before, but we have to make sure you’re not one of them, or what’s the bloody point?”

“Nobody dies this year,” Wit said suddenly, his doubt burning away in the intensity of Cedric’s regard.  _ “Nobody. _ That’s the win condition, OUR win condition. We’re going to be the first to keep four Champions alive through the tournament, and when we do, we  _ win. _ Together.”

Cedric started to tear up, but he looked away and chuffed a bit. “Right then, the room is just this way.”

Wit laughed when they got to the room. Somehow, Viktor had picked the very room that held his mum’s record player. At Cedric’s curious look and Viktor’s quirked eyebrow, he pointed at the wall, “Those boot prints are from my mum’s Docs. And...” He gleefully moved around to the desk, pulling the record player and the stack of vinyls out from their hiding places, “These were hers, too. Technically, they’re mine now, but they stay here to be used during the year.”

While Viktor happily flipped through the records, finally settling on a Cure album, Wit moved over to join Fleur where she was arranging the snacks she had procured on two student desks pulled together to make a table. She smiled and handed him a plate already filled with small portions of just about everything, half of which he had never seen before. When he looked up Cedric was frowning at him.

Wit paled slightly, he didn’t know what he’d done. Why was Cedric mad? Or maybe sad? Some kind of upset, Harry didn’t know which, but he didn’t like it. “Cedric?”

“Harry,” Cedric said slowly, “Why is it so important to you that no one dies? I mean, obviously, people dying is bad, but it’s not something people really think about. When you said nobody dying is our win condition, it seemed  _ really _ important to you. Why?”

Everybody was staring at him. Fleur worriedly.  ~~ Why was she worried? ~~ Cedric seriously.  ~~ Shouldn’t he know already? ~~ Viktor’s stare was… intense, leaving Harry feeling rather like a squirrel on a telephone wire with a hawk on each post. Harry breathed and counted, focused on his senses, desks, chairs, bootprints, snacks, blue, yellow, red, black, Cure (drums, guitar, bass, keyboard, vocals), garlic, cheese, bread. They hadn’t moved, waiting for his answer. “I just… I want a year without anyone dying or being hospitalized for months. I haven’t had one yet, and I thought for sure I would this year because of the age line and they said there were going to be precautions in place, but I don’t think it will anymore.”

Cedric looked startled while Fleur moved to gently lay a hand on his back. “What do you mean, ‘Arry? You ‘aven’t ‘ad one yet?”

He put his plate down and sank into a tailor-seat on the floor. “First year the Defence teacher was possessed by Voldemort and he tried to kill me at least twice that we know of during the year, and at the end of the year was trying to get the Philosopher’s Stone that was stashed on the third floor, and no one believed us, so Mione, Ron, and I had to stop him, and at the end it was just me and him and he tried again, only his hands burnt when he tried to strangle me, so I just… grabbed his face and held on until he… until he died.” It all just fell out and he found that once he’d started he couldn’t stop, “Second year, a diary from when Voldemort was sixteen possessed a first year and made them open the Chamber of Secrets and sic the Basilisk in it on people, and nobody believed anything I said then either, and a dozen students were petrified for months, and the Defence teacher was supposed to be going down to save Ginny, only he was running away instead, so Ron and I dragged him with us and then he tried to obliviate us because he was a fraud and that’s how he wrote all his books, stealing other’s stories and obliviating them, but he tried to use Ron’s broken wand and it backfired, caving in the tunnel and wiping his memories of  _ everything, _ and I had to kill the Basilisk and the diary on my own and only didn’t die because a Phoenix said so, and Ginny almost died too. Last year the only reason my godfather and I didn’t both die by dementor attack is because Dumbledore sent Mione and I back in time with her time turner to save  _ myself _ from them.” Harry’s cheeks felt wet. Why were his cheeks wet? “I just… I just wanted a normal year, but instead people were signing up to die and everyone was cheering for it, and then my name came out too and…” He ran out of steam. “I just need a year where  _ nobody dies.” _

“Nobody dies,” Viktor agreed softly, putting one huge hand on Harry’s back. “We can do this. Together.”

“Nobody dies,” Fleur promised, tears glittering on her blond lashes like ice on winter branches. Her face was sad and distant and full of a cold fury that reminded Wit of Mab and a punching bag.

“Nobody dies,” Cedric said wetly. “Harry, I’m sorry. I hadn’t even thought about what Quirrell and Lockhart had put you through. I didn’t realize… they never really told the rest of us what the fights were like. You shouldn’t be carrying all that.”

“Someone has to,” Wit shrugged. “May as well be me.”

“I meant alone,” Cedric said sourly. “You need help carrying something that damned big and you’re going to get it, whether you want it or not. Now have a snack.”

“Now I know why everyone says Ma is a Hufflepuff,” Wit said with a yawn. He suddenly felt very tired and wanted to lay down. As if reading his mind, Viktor steered him to a small pile of pillows and fur coats in the corner. There was music and food and people to take the watch, and Wit let his mind drift off as he curled up in the nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _the ceiling was neither flat nor a smooth curve but rather reminded him of Turkish palaces or Gothic cathedrals._  
>  https://thespaces.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Ali-Qapu-the-music-hall-e1446036251231.jpg  
> (actually Iranian, but Harry has minimal education in architecture, geography, and foreign history, and is only half remembering things he's seen on public education TV and in magazines.)  
> https://thumbs-prod.si-cdn.com/ZArU1HahKWlsmNXkSj1wILLghbI=/fit-in/1600x0/https://public-media.si-cdn.com/filer/04/cb/04cb6e38-9705-4b98-9198-a4a1cdb61115/hagia_sophia_6648986615.jpg   
> Hagia Sophia, which IS Turkish, but is not a palace.
> 
> https://www.nomadepicureans.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/04/gohic-architecture-oxford.jpg  
> Bodleian's Divinity School, Oxford UK  
> https://www.mdpi.com/acoustics/acoustics-02-00003/article_deploy/html/images/acoustics-02-00003-g002-550.jpg  
> https://i.pinimg.com/originals/1a/a3/d8/1aa3d8b483411c81771eb941912302f7.jpg   
> https://storage.googleapis.com/hippostcard/p/dfdeccfeb16cdcb047057a8872c65a45.jpg  
> Lady Chapel, Ely Cathedral
> 
> https;//www.nomadepicureans.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/04/gothic-architecture-in-europe.jpg
> 
> _The first song_   
> (quoting from Wikipedia, author notes in[ ] )  
> Fantasio(1940)  
> The Pastoral Symphony by Ludwig van Beethoven. A mythical Greco-Roman world of colorful centaurs, cupids [cherubs], fauns, and other figures of classical [by which they mean "an absurd hybridization of Greek and Roman in which no one cares which you use even though every one who has studied them knows they are NOT the same"] mythology is portrayed to Beethoven's music. A gathering festival in honor of Bacchus, the god of wine [also, madness and quite a few other things] is interrupted by Zeus [being an asshole for no real reason] who creates storm and directs Vulcan [yes, they actually have Vulcan there, that is NOT Hephaestus, but they also depict him as both over enthusiastic and potentially mentally handicapped. Both Vulcan and Hephy were *physically* handicapped because Zeus and Jupiter married Raging Bitches who literally threw sons away because they weren't pretty enough, but they were in no way mentally affected.] to forge lightning bolts for him to throw at the attendees [because Zeus is an Ass, obviously.]   
> [Zeus gets bored and tired, goes to sleep, the storm clears, and Diana spreads the Night. The end.] -Valky
> 
> _I wanted to make sure we all had free time together first._  
>  Cedric's love/apology language is planning and time management. Because he's a polyamorous Hufflepuff and if he had Googl Calendar it would be GLORIOUS. - Bairn
> 
> _"These were hers, too. Technically, they’re mine now, but they stay here to be used during the year.”_   
> He's leaving Sev out of it to keep Sev's secrets.
> 
> _He put his plate down and sank into a tailor-seat on the floor._   
> yeesss, this IS followed by massive run on sentences. That's on purpose because that's how Harry is thinking/talking right now, his brain isn't giving him time to breathe much less grammar adequately.
> 
> _grabbed his face and held on until he… until he died.”_  
>  Per the book, Harry was unconcious when Voldemort abandoned his (possibly fatally) injured host, which killed Quirrell, but Harry's opperating on the logic-string of "i touched him till he died, therefore I killed him" but hasn't been able to process that yet.


End file.
